


out of obscurity into the dream

by spectralPhobia



Series: out of obscurity [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake Medicine, I took liberties with Spock's telepathic abilities, M/M, Romance, it's a Tangled AU, suspend your disbelief dear readers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-10 21:47:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 87,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11135340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectralPhobia/pseuds/spectralPhobia
Summary: Started as a Tangled AU fusion with Star Trek 2009, developed into its own thing.Spock has lived an entire life in seclusion, brought up by a Romulan to believe he was one too. Convinced his telepathy was a rare gift that must be protected at all costs, he was prohibited to touch anyone and leave the house.Jim Kirk comes across him accidentally after he was hired to steal a Vulcan artefact. Together, they start an adventure of finding a soulmate in each other and preventing another catastrophe from happening after the artefact turns out to be a part of an ancient psionic weapon.Also known as “How I almost died three times in two days and found my soulmate”, an autobiography by J.T. Kirk.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the T’hy’la Big Bang 2017.  
> I took the basic premise of Tangled, the rest is my own.  
> It uses a plot point from TNG's episode Gambit - but you don't have to watch it to understand. If you did watch it - well, you'll know what I mean.  
> Basically a Tangled AU with telepathy instead of magic hair.  
> Also, I encourage you not to hide the creator's style: there's some neat formatting with text messages in the later chapters.
> 
> UPDATE: I have made a playlist for this fic! If you're interested, click [here.](https://open.spotify.com/user/s-opal/playlist/1dGSFx1XR11wA38wVnVxS8)

“He has your eyes,” Ambassador Sarek said when he saw his newborn son for the first time. Lady Amanda, tired but radiant, touched the baby’s pointy ear tips.

“And your ears,” she smiled.

No matter how advanced the technology was, successful crossbreeding of two different species was an extremely rare occasion only the most cutting-edge laboratories dared to attempt. But Sarek and Amanda never gave up, and finally seeing their son, a completely new creation ready to explore his uniqueness, gave them indescribable joy – even though Sarek would deny it, and say he experienced something more Vulcan-like, like satisfaction to be procreated with his chosen mate.

Just born, the child was already showered with love generously given out by his mother, and the name his parents gave him was of one of the Vulcan society builders, intended to be a sign of incredible future that awaited him. As it often was, they were focused on the good things to come, not on the potential disasters unlikely to happen.

Spock knew love for exactly thirty one day; and, because those were the first days of his life, of course he didn’t remember it.

Neither did he remember when came next: Romulan terrorists, a giant drill dispensing the red matter into the Vulcan’s core, a black hole consuming the ancient culture, and the Starfleet vessels fleeing with what little population they managed to save.

Sarek and Amanda were among them, flanked by Starfleet officers with strict orders to save the members of the council first, and when Amanda struggled and shouted that she had to return to her son, it was too late – and the couple were left to watch their planet being consumed by a black hole along with 90% of the inhabitants, along with Romulan starships being pushed into destruction by a brave Starfleet captain – all but one tiny shuttlecraft that flew away unnoticed in mass hysteria.

Sarek, being a Vulcan and sharing the strongest familial bond with Spock in his family, knew he was alive somewhere, but as the unsupported bond grew weaker over the years, the chances of finding him through it became non-existent.

***

The very first memory Spock could recollect was of his caretaker’s face, the Romulan’s eyes dark, scarred skin covered in tattoos. The first memories of his mind were fuzzier, mostly because young Spock couldn’t distinguish between moods and emotions very well – but he remembered it being focused, intense with the sense of _triumph_.

Spock remembered it clear: his fingertips pressed to key points on his caretaker’s face, Nero telling him of a special gift Spock possessed and the words that would activate it. Spock said, _My mind to your mind_ , and with Nero’s guidance, repaired the damage done to both mind and body. Like he promised, the knowledge of the process came natural to Spock; diving into the other’s mind was easy and exciting. With wonder, he watched the shallow cuts fade from the man’s exhilarated face, but when curiosity prompted him to look for a reason to those cuts, Nero broke the meld. The abrupt snapping of the link was painful, and that’s how Spock learnt to never look for reasons, even though the wounds, especially the ones on mind, were intriguing.

This procedure was repeated every other time Nero visited – sometimes he could ask to take away the pain or escalate the healing process, other times to mask his mind so it would not be visible, but there was a procedure that was repeated every time no matter what: he would need his mind strengthened against external influences. When Spock asked what those influences were – it could help him find the most efficient way to repair the damage – he was told to shut up and never ask questions.

So he didn’t.

After the melds Nero would stay for a while to fulfil his duties as the owner of the house, and then leave again.

Around age four, Spock learned another important lesson. Biologically, he wasn’t inclined to desiring physical contact, but that time Nero left him for a week – an unbearably long amount of time for a child for whom a week made up an entire 0.48% of his lifetime – and when he finally got back, Spock couldn’t resist reaching out to him. The tiny hand that grabbed Nero’s rough fingers was slapped away instantly.  
“Never, under no circumstances,” Nero said, towering over him, “you will touch me or anyone else. Never.”

“Why?” Spock asked, rubbing his hand, as if he could erase the slash of fear he sensed through the brief contact. It was sickening, like a nail driven into his temple; something he’s never sensed before.

Nero pressed a hand over his face, visibly vanquishing his anger.

“Your mind is weak,” he explained. “Through touch, you give the others access to it, you are opening yourself up to be abused as they please.”

“Your explanation is illogical,” Spock said stubbornly. “I touch _you_ when we meld – why is this any different? And where are the others you speak of?” Something dark and all-consuming was rising within him. The fear he felt for being abandoned forever, the anger, the hurt, all came together in a single stream that barrelled out of his mouth into a shout. “When will I leave this house?! I WANT TO! I WANT TO LEAVE NOW!!”

The explosion of anger came unexpected to both of them, and stunned both into silence. Spock was surprised and scared at the sudden leap of emotion his usually tranquil mind produced, but it was nothing compared to the fear that was written in Nero’s black eyes. Spock almost started reaching out again, stopping at the last moment.

“The only touch permitted between us is the one I initiate.”

With these words Nero disappeared for another week, leaving Spock in a state of frustration and disarray and the sense of complete wrongness having those emotions was, regretting his outburst more than anything else.

Spock wondered if Nero left because of his lack of control – he berated himself for it and begged whatever forces were listening to let him have one more chance. He would never raise his voice again, never touch anyone again, just let him not be alone.

Just when he started wondering if the potted flowers were edible, Nero returned, but this time he wasn’t alone.

The woman’s face was a blank mask, and it didn’t change as she explained the importance of control, the merits of logic, and the danger of emotions. Spock was glad to find the solid ground beneath his feet after days of exhausting uncertainty, and he knew from now on he would never allow himself another shameful outburst. The teachings and philosophies the woman – T’Mira – has introduced were a reprieve from the ambivalence Spock didn’t realize has been dictating his life thus far; she has taught him the behaviour he must follow in his daily life, and even cut his hair in a proper bowlcut. T’Mira spent time with him telling old legends, teaching how to play a lyre, listen to music, draw: cultural education was important, she said. It was the first time he spent so much consecutive time in proximity with another person, so of course he couldn’t help but grow attached, and he thought T’Mira enjoyed their lessons too – but every time he tried to express himself, she withdrew.

She praised the organization of his mind “despite the lack of studying” when they partook in a meditation together – the praise was all the more powerful when her lack of expression didn’t change throughout the day. However, when they touched minds... hers was full of fear.

Spock withdrew the moment he sensed it, and Nero, who was watching every single step of their progress, rushed to his side, glaring at T’Mira.

“What did you show him?” He growled, and for the first time, a tiniest spark of emotion showed on the woman’s face.

Terror.

“Nothing – he simply sensed my state of mind.”

“Where is your praised control?”

Another spark.

Disgust.

More terror.

When T’Mira put her hand on the side of Spock’s face again to show different melding techniques, the emotions were blocked, even if still palpable, but Spock didn’t chase them.

She has spent ten weeks in Spock’s house, always under Nero’s watchful eye. Sometimes he would hear snippets of their conversations, but they always fell silent before he could understand what they were talking about.

There was only one time when Spock heard something: _pon farr_ , meaning of which he didn’t understand.

He didn’t catch T’Mira’s words, but heard Nero’s reply, “You do have a daughter about his age,” and T’Mira’s hissed, “ _Never_.”

He didn’t hear the rest of the conversation because the door closed behind them; and Spock’s later questions about what pon farr is were dismissed with a “You’ll know when you’re older.”

When T’Mira was about to leave, Spock overheard the longest conversation between her and the caretaker so far.

As he approached, he heard the words _‘savage’_ and _‘uncontrollable’_ and finally –

“He must pursue knowledge, otherwise his mind will stagnate. Do not keep him in the dark. My part of the deal is fulfilled,” she said, tone bearing the same two emotions as before. “Now you do yours.”

“I will, don’t you worry,” Nero said coldly.

T’Mira left Spock three enormously long texts explaining the teachings of Surak in detail, and left with Nero. He returned alone a day later, and Spock asked, “She was afraid. Why?”

“She is afraid of you, of your abilities... also of me.”

“Of you? For what reason?”

“Because if she would harm you, I would have to destroy her.”

“Why would she want to harm me?” Spock asked, confused.

“Because your telepathic gift is rare and priced. If anyone knew you possessed it, they would want to hunt you down.”

Spock was perceptive, even as a child.

“Is this the reason I cannot go outside?”

“Yes. The outside world is cruel, driven by fear and death. If it finds something unique, it destroys it immediately.”

Of course, this explained everything, even the strange injuries Nero was always coming back with. With a twinge of sympathy, Spock offered him to stay inside forever. But the caretaker was so brave, he explained he had to go outside to provide for them both, and if Spock really wanted to help, he would focus on developing his healing telepathic abilities.

At age five, Nero brought another teacher who taught him about self-defence and how to produce a small amount of telepathic pressure to a particular nerve that could incapacitate the opponent. When Spock was asked to practice the move on the teacher – Sivorek – he saw fear through the brief contact, yet again.

After that, Spock has learned to expect nothing but fear in the minds he touched. If he looked forward to the new teachers Nero would bring before, now the lessons became unbearable.

Thankfully, there were only two more; none of them ever came back, and why would they want to?

They were scared. So, so scared.

The last teacher came when Spock was seven, and that’s when he found out there were different species on Earth. The teacher was an Andorian, and Spock spent minutes staring at his blue skin and peculiar antennas. He bombarded Nero with questions after that, even though he has learnt he would not get a straight answer, and reluctantly, Nero explained that he, Spock, and all the previous teachers were Romulans; and while this information didn’t bring Spock any new insight about who he was, after years of isolation it was still pleasing to be considered a part of a group, even if he would never that group.

The desire to touch the Andorian teacher’s pearly skin was suppressed fast; Spock new there was nothing he hadn’t seen before.

The only mind he could touch effortlessly was Nero’s – there was never any fear, just confidence and sense of accomplishment.

But mostly, he was alone in his mind and in his house – sometimes, when he partook in a particularly deep meditation, he could sense void, as if there was something missing, a big part of his mind – but it didn’t seem to influence him outwardly, so he didn’t delve too deep on this.

Instead, he created an imaginary mindscape out of scraps of information he’s learned, a place to retreat to when the four walls of the house became too boring. As Spock grew older and his mind grew stronger, the mindscape developed along with it, creating a complex structure he could manipulate at will. But while there were times of craving another’s company, he never allowed anyone – neither the teachers nor the caretaker – even know of its existence.

Once, he asked Nero what was the purpose of him learning self-defence if the very point of him staying inside the house was that he didn’t have to encounter any situation that would require him to enter a fight.

“There is no weapon stronger than a living being. Besides, I hate meek and obedient,” Nero replied, which was one of the few personal conversations they had; logically, there was never any need to discuss anything beyond what was needed for a successful life inside the house.

When Spock was a child, the house he lived in seemed like a mansion, and it really was spacious: a large bedroom with attached bathroom, a kitchen big enough to host ten inhabitants, and four rooms for whatever activities Spock wished to partake it. This, among other reasons, was why he never protested against being locked in during his childhood. He considered the force field interspersing every wall and window and the unbreakable lock on the door a necessary precaution. And around age eight, when his demeanour started to change and he grew tired of seeing the same place over and over again, Nero must’ve sensed the change and gave Spock a tool kit and a permission to remodel the house however Spock pleased.

Around that age, Nero’s visits became shorter and less frequent; he figured that since Spock was capable of taking care of himself, he could devote his free time to the business. When Spock was young, he was curious about what that business was, but as he grew up he learnt that it was none of his concern.

When Spock was ten, Nero installed a replicator in the house; this way he could leave for months without fearing Spock would die from starvation. Later he also brought in a computer designed for playing chess; Spock taught himself the rules and soon was proficient enough to either win or draw every game against the machine.

He studied engineering – not only to have the means to fix any technology present inside the house, but also to try and invent something of his own. One of those inventions – or rather, recreations of the existing technology he read about – was a radio; he wanted to create a method of hearing what the outside world speaks of. He was almost successful – but just as he was about to assemble the first prototype, Nero found out.

In quiet furious words, he forbid _any_ means of communication with the outside world, direct or indirect, and destroyed the unfinished radio with a warning that disobedience would lead to Spock being left alone here forever.

Spock never tried building another radio or satellite again, and the next time he was remodelling the house he found it lined with lead plates that were impenetrable to any signals.

Spock had enough activities to occupy his free time. He never wanted to see the flora, fauna, and wonders of the world in real life because it was illogical: everything was already documented, he would find more benefit from studying published works. And if he wanted visual diversity, he could go to the mindscape he’s built so carefully.

However, the things that attracted his attention in the outside world still existed. Through the kitchen window he could see the night sky and the stars he spent several clear nights charting, but among them, new lights were rising from the ground and disappearing into darkness. Obviously, it was something artificially created, but Spock had no clue to what exactly it was: their speed and flight patterns were different from any air transport he was familiar with. As it usually was with a puzzle he had no answer to (be it a complicated equation, or a theorem he spent days searching proof for), Spock was determined to solve it, and seeing the lights every night only teased him further. Nero never answered, perhaps still seeing him as a child who couldn’t handle overwhelming information. At stormy nights, when the clouds were low, they were lit by blinding white light – must have been a huge projector. Nero never explained what it was either.

The window was the most comfortable place to watch the outside world, the ever changeable weather. When it rained, Spock would be fascinated by droplets sliding down forming curious patterns. Sometimes he entertained the idea of what it would be like to feel the raindrops on his skin, but he always quenched the wish brutally as soon as it appeared, as if he was surrounded by a scrutinizing audience who’s just caught him doing something incredibly shameful – there always was Nero’s shadow and T’Mira’s expectations looming over him. After all, rain was just water falling from the sky. If Spock wanted, he could achieve the same result in the shower – but he didn’t. Romulans weren’t supposed to want anything.

Sometimes he would get a yearning to be touched – but as the years went by, he learned how to successfully eradicate it without a trace.

And thus, twenty years have passed.

Or, to be exact, nineteen years and 364 days.

***

It was an off-day for Jim Kirk.

Not because of the Federation Security drones casing him chanting his name as if it would help them move faster – that part was expected when he decided to steal the artefact – but said artefact was being handled by Starfleet, and _Starfleet_ was the last organization Jim wanted to be hot on his trail.

However, Jim had to go through this job – after all, this was his last gig, the glorious moment where he came out a victor to the applause of teary-eyed fans, with hands full of credits enough to buy a personal planet and _finally_ get away from this shitty town, and laugh in the faces of the people who made his life this way.

The only setback was that he wasn’t a fan of running for what felt like an eternity, lying on the ground for several hours waiting till the security passes, falling down a cliff, and sitting behind very cold very sharp rocks, as he was doing now.

Oh, and on top of everything, tomorrow was his birthday.

Whoopity-hoo.

The only positive thing about the rocks was that they were the perfect shape and material to mask him from the drones scanning the area. Jim has disassembled enough drones to know exactly how they worked and what minerals’ wavelengths can interfere with their sensors, unlike the majority of the criminal population.

Jim felt the stone in the pouch attached to his belt to ensure it survived their adventures safely. He didn’t feel particularly guilty for stealing it: after all, it only seemed fitting that the artefact passed from Vulcans to Romulans that started the catastrophe resulting in the former’s destruction and the death of USS Kelvin’s crew would end up in the hands of the man who would use it to get out of the horrible life inflicted on him by said destruction.

Jim ran a finger over the image of the god of death on the stone.

It’s symbolic and stuff, see.

The last drone’s chirp faded in the distance, and Jim could finally breathe freely. He couldn’t risk following them, so he moved backwards into the small cave – anyone with a good knowledge of geology could realize the cave wasn’t a dead end but a passage that would lead somewhere, hopefully somewhere where he could wait till the drones moved a safe distance away.

And sure enough, soon after crawling through the narrow passage Jim was blinking at the bright sunlight shining on a small meadow.

Being surrounded by inaccessible artificial mountains left by someone digging for something two centuries ago must have been the only reason as to why this place wasn’t appropriated yet – it was practically begging to become a birthplace for another mall. For a crazy moment Jim felt like a princess from old cartoons about to spin around with her arms open.

And, simply because he was safe, the artefact was tucked inside the pouch, and there was no soul around, Jim indulged in this harmless whim and sprinted on the soft grass.

…Only to collide with an invisible wall with such force he was thrown backwards, landing on his ass painfully.

“Huh”, Jim said after ensuring that both his backside and the carved stone were in one piece.

He probed the force field gently – it seemed to cover an entire meadow. And in Jim’s opinion, something huge and hidden was always equal to something exciting.

Even with all the incredible technical knowledge he possessed it was difficult to find an invisible control panel, but once he did, Jim was determined to see this through and uncover the meadow’s secret. He wiggled his fingers, as if summoning the spirits of all the hackers in the world and set on breaking the complicated entry code.

***

Spock woke up at 4 a.m., as per his usual routine, took a sonic shower, brushed his teeth and changed into a light gray ornamental robe, tied loosely with a blue sash T’Mira gave him as a parting gift. He replicated a cup of green tea with a toast and settled next to a window to watch the lights reflecting on the clouds on the horizon.

As per T’Mira’s recommendation, he engaged in a 40-minute long meditation to prepare his mind for a new day; he prolonged it for an extra half an hour simply because the mental realm was more desirable to him than the physical one. The landscape he created there greeted him with its usual sparkling sand, tall mountains, and harsh lines of the leaves slicing the blue sky that sometimes changed colour to unfamiliar reds and oranges. He found comfort in knowing every dent on an empty metal arch in a small garden, every blade of rigid yellow grass protruding out of the dry sand.

After that he activated a music player – the code he wrote automatically turned on the “Morning Playlist” consisting of hundreds of songs. With the accompaniment of drums and an electric guitar, the singer claimed to be “a tiger defying the laws of gravity”1 – more emotional Earth’s inhabitants chose curious and often nonsensical words to accompany their music, and Spock admitted he still didn’t understand many of them. Spock automatically began thinking about how those sounds could be transcripted into the lyre’s music; too eager to finish the breakfast properly, he went straight to the lyre as soon as the melody formed in his mind, and spent 79.6 minutes polishing it to perfection. After the new composition was ready, Spock wrote the notes into the music notebook carefully: it became his 468th composition.

Then he proceeded to the replicator and continued working on a new modification: he was trying to program a variation of Fettuccine Alfredo into it despite not knowing what it tasted like, relying only on the cookbook’s description: “rich and creamy.” 195.4 minutes later it was complete. Spock considered showing this to Nero, but dismissed the idea: the caretaker was never impressed with Spock’s technical achievements (or any other achievements, to be honest). Besides, he would only comment on how the taste differed from the actual meal, therefore, it was an illogical course of action.

The rest of the day proceeded like this: 30.3 minutes to reread a particularly engaging article about methods of genetic engineering that used _malus communis_ as a prime specimen, 88.7 minutes to read a work on the string theory (Spock spent 25.3 minutes longer than usual because he constructed imaginary mental arguments with the authors of the work; an illogical action he rarely indulged in), 18 minutes to fix a malfunctioning refrigerator, 33 minutes to stitch a hole in the most comfortable robe he owned and, finally, 196 minutes to clean the house thoroughly in preparation of the caretaker’s arrival tomorrow.

After the cleaning he debated whether to work on the holo-emitter (a current engineering project of his; he was experimenting to see how small he can make the bulky brick-sized emitter with keeping its properties: so far he had reached a three inch square, but he knew it could be even smaller) or reading, and in the end settled on the latter.

Spock has just began rereading “Build Your Own Hovercar: A Self-teaching Guide” when his exemplary hearing caught a soft sound of a code being keyed in. He rose from his seat gracefully – it wasn’t unusual for Nero to show up unannounced, even though he usually showed up _later_ than expected, never earlier.

He patted his hair to make sure he looked presentable and proceeded to the living room, about to greet Nero – but the words died right onto his tongue. There was an unknown individual in the house. And not just any individual – a being from the species he’s never encountered before. Spock froze in the doorway, unseen by the man who was too busy ogling the lyre standing on the desk, and stared at the back of his head that was the most peculiar yellow colour.

The man’s hand tightened around a small metal object – a weapon, no doubt – and Spock couldn’t afford waiting any longer and being discovered. He put up the strongest mental shields to protect his mind and moved behind the man soundlessly, pinching his neck and rendering him unconscious before the man could realize he wasn’t alone.

The body crashed on the carpet with a loud _thump_ , and Spock peered at the part of his face that wasn’t obscured by strangely coloured hair.

He was closer to exhilaration than he ever was. Nero said this house was the most secure place on earth, and yet this man got in – he must be very smart and very dangerous, and yet Spock incapacitated him without even starting a fight, true to the way of pacifism he was taught.

 _“Not so helpless after all,”_ Spock’s inner voice said, allowing a hint of smugness to appear as long as no one could hear him.

He took the weapon from the man’s hand, careful not to touch his skin – it reminded him of a screwdriver, but with a lot of buttons which purposes were unclear – and used it to move the hair out of the way.

The results were... fascinating.

The man’s skin was rosy, the tint more prominent on the lips and the tip of the nose where it collided with the floor, which drew conclusion that his blood was red – how curious! – and must be iron-based. The thick eyebrows were arching over the closed eyes, the shell of the ear was small and round, and Spock idly wondered what kind of evolutionary processes led to losing the pointy tip in these species.  
Snapping out of the reverie, Spock knew he had to be prepared for the moment the man wakes up.  
He grabbed a spare cable from the container with parts he used for his engineering projects, and managed to prop the man on a kitchen chair making sure the little necessary contact was done through the thick layer of clothing. After wrapping the cable around him tightly and fusing its ends with a welding machine – this way it would be impossible for the man to get out on his own – Spock raided the man’s pockets, pulling out some tiny plastic squares, more objects like the screwdriver-like weapon, some very unhealthy protein bars, and finally, a stone.

Spock’s process of disarming a threat suddenly came to a halt.

The stone was aesthetically pleasing, carved into a slingshot-like shape, covered in delicate carvings worn with time, forming a pattern of lines and swirls surrounding two unfamiliar figures. Spock was confused at his inappropriate reaction to seeing the stone: it shouldn’t elicit an emotional response from him, and yet… It’s like he has seen the writings somewhere, although with his eidetic memory he knew it couldn’t be true.

Spock squashed the beginnings of an unknown emotion like he always did and slipped the stone inside vault hidden behind the refrigerator he once constructed to practice locking mechanisms.

He settled on concealing himself behind a doorway, thinking that observing the man unsupervised could provide with additional information about his behaviour.

Eventually, the man stirred and struggled against the cable, releasing a string of curses after realizing he was unable to break free.

The curses were the same Nero often used; well, at least they would be able to communicate in the same language.

Spock chose this moment to come out, back ramrod straight, body language carefully constructed in a way to project intimidation.

The man’s eyes flew wide and snapped to Spock’s face, raking down his body slowly, and flying up to linger on ear tips and tilted eyebrows again.

Spock allowed this examination: it seemed fair after minutes Spock spent looking at his unconscious body in a similar manner; the man could be seeing a Romulan for the first time.

He opened and closed his mouth, and opened it again, but Spock interjected before he could find the words.

“You will tell me who you are, how and why you intruded in my house.”

He stepped forward to tower over the man – he has read that height differences often equated to power differences in sentient species.

However, apart from a sheen of sweat forming in the creases of his skin the man didn’t display any textbook signs of nervousness Spock expected.

He actually smiled – an utterly illogical reaction for a helpless man tied to a chair – and closed one eye briefly.

“Sorry for the intrusion, pal, official Starfleet business,” he wiggled against the cable. “I’m a Starfleet officer, see?”

Spock realized that the wiggling was the man trying to push his chest forward so that Spock could observe the silver pin with a star on the black fabric. The words ‘Starfleet’ didn’t mean anything, so he remained blank-faced. He maintained eye contact to assert dominance – but it didn’t bring the desirable outcome, the man continued to stare at him without a sign of fear. Perhaps Spock’s technique was lacking; after all, he had no one to practice it on.

“You have not answered my questions.”

The man sighed and looked faintly apologetic.

“Look, I didn’t know it was private property, okay? I just came across this force field and I was curious, I mean, that’s that Starfleet is all about, boldly going where no one has gone before, this includes investigating mysterious hidden objects.”

Spock inclined his head, accepting the explanation.

“You have yet to answer two more questions.”

The man wiggled against the cable again.

“You know, I’m not usually the one to complain about a gorgeous guy tying me down,” another smile and a blink of single eye, “but not when it’s against my will and _really_ tight. How about you release me and we will have a cup of coffee and talk about anything you want like civilized gentlemen?”

Spock tilted his head, deciphering the man’s words and expressions.

“You seem to be attempting to get free for the sole purpose of fleeing or engaging in a fight with me. It is futile, for I am in possession of all your weapons.”

Spock showed the objects he extracted from the belt.

“Weapons?.. These are my tools! That thing you’re holding is a screwdriver.”

“Why does it look like this?”

“What _should_ it look like?”

Spock took his own screwdriver out of a kitchen drawer.

The man produced a strange sound – part-cough, part-laugh.

“This thing is ancient! What did you do, rob an Earth history museum?” The man’s laughter stopped abruptly. “Wait a sec. _You went through my pockets!!_ Where is-”

“The stone is hidden where you will never find it,” Spock said, satisfied with his assessment of the object’s value and decision to use it as leverage.

The man groaned and threw his head back.

“You seem to have mastered the art of deflecting a topic of a conversation. You have two more questions to answer.”

“God you’re persistent... fine, my name is James T. Kirk and I hacked into the lock. Satisfied? Can you let me go now?”

“No,” Spock answered simply.

“Time to change tactics,” James muttered to his knees, probably not meaning for Spock to hear him, but not lowering his voice enough.

When he looked up, Spock was met with the most peculiar expression: his eyebrows were drawn together and slanted in a way that made the angle almost completely opposite to Spock’s, the eyelids drooped to cover half of the irises, and the pink lower lip was sticking out slightly.

Spock stared back, unsure how to proceed or if he was even expected to participate in this strange ritual.

“Today really isn’t my day,” the stuck out lip muffled James’s words.

Perhaps the ritual could be ignored for now for the sake of pursuing more urgent matters.

“Who else knows about my whereabouts?” Spock asked.

“Nobody! I told you, it was an accident, if it wasn’t for my mad hacking skills I wouldn’t be able to get inside.”

“You are saying there is nobody hunting for me.”

“Of course not, why would they be, to steal your outdated tech? I see you for the first time!”

The man – James – couldn’t use his limbs, so he conveyed all his emotions in his facial features. He was very expressive, in the short amount of time Spock saw a range of emotions he’s never seen on anyone else combined.

James seemed genuinely unaware of Spock’s value, which was promising.

When Spock looked back, James was serious.

“Alright, you obviously want something. What?”

Spock wondered. _Was_ there really something he wanted?

He always thought he was quite content with his life, he had everything, that’s what Nero said, but he realized that those thoughts were caused by seeming inability to break through the force field. But this man held the key to the outside world, to new knowledge... Spock’s gaze was drawn to the kitchen window automatically. If the sky was dark he could’ve been able to see the reflection of the lights moving against the clouds. Their source couldn’t be far away, they would be able to reach it and come back before Nero’s return...

And then James would show Spock how to break the lock, and he would be able to leave whenever he wanted, and the caretaker wouldn’t have to know, he would have no reason to be overprotective. James didn’t seem malevolent like Spock initially thought, despite the dangerous skills he possessed; and Spock was certain freeing him would not result in a fight. In any case, if the situation became dire, he could always overpower him.

With his mind made, Spock pointed at the window.

“At night, I can see lights rising up behind that hill, 81% of them in inconsistent intervals. I want to know what this is.”

James craned his neck, and when Spock realized he was sitting too low to see, he grasped the back of the chair and lifted him up.

“Holy shit!!”

James was of bizarre species; Spock has read that Earth inhabitants had multiple religions, but worshiping excrement went out of any realm of rationality.

James seemed more interested in watching the arm that was holding the chair than the view of the hill tops, and Spock shook him slightly to give a nudge in the right direction.

“Uh...” finally he tore his wide eyes away from Spock. “Well, it must be the ships leaving for the spaceport, and the irregular lights you saw up close must be shuttles transporting materials on the construction site and the drones doing the work. Haven’t you heard, Starfleet is building ships there – they’re making a new one now, the Enterprise.”

“I see,” Spock said, even though he really didn’t. “I wish to see both.”

“Well, go ahead and live your dream, getting in the spaceport is a piece of cake, ask literally anyone for directions. As for the Enterprise – sorry, dude, random people aren’t allowed on the site.”

Spock put the chair down and raised an eyebrow.

“Very well, you will take me there.”

James raised both eyebrows in reply.

“What makes you think I’ll be able to get in? I’m not breaking into top security places for your amusement, no matter how pretty your eyes are.”

Spock blinked at him in confusion at the eye comment.

“My eyes have no impact on your amusement, you mentioning them is illogical. You said you are a Starfleet officer. Your community will let you in.”

James huffed out a laugh, muttering ‘community’ as if it was the funniest word.

“Okay,” he spoke at normal volume. “Say I agree. What stops you from standing me up and running away with the artefact?”

“Romulans do not lie,” Spock replied confidently.

James actually laughed at this, the cheerful sound echoing in the large rooms, and with a jolt Spock realized that this was the first time he heard a person laughing joyfully, not in anger or ridicule.

“Who knew the sense of humour was a part of the package? That’s funnier than that joke about Klingons and Cardassians – have you heard this one, two Klingons and a Cardassian walk into a Terran bar?...” James shook his head at Spock’s perplexed expression. “Nevermind. But seriously, you gotta give me something more solid than a pinky promise.”

Spock tilted his head, falling silent for longer than he intended. James seemed fond of using strange words in orders that didn’t make any sense.

Finally deciphering the general meaning behind the little speech, Spock offered, “I will also ask you to show me how to open the force field once we get back. This wish is of higher priority and you can use it as leverage against me for the duration of our journey. Are we in agreement?”

James huffed and blew at the damp hairs sticking to his forehead. “Fine, whatever, just get me out of these ropes, it stopped being funny ages ago.”

Spock could put off addressing James odd speech patterns no longer.

“You have been tied for the duration of thirty-three minutes, not ages, moreover, these are obviously cables, not ropes, and I do not believe you have ever thought this was ‘fun’, judging by your initial reaction-”

“God, just cut the cables!”

Spock took the wire cutters, and James tensed – a completely logical reaction, seeing how he came from the outside world where everyone wanted to kill each other. To show he meant no harm, instead of going behind James’s back where it would be easier to access the cable, Spock knelt by his side, so that James could see where the cutters snapped the metal.

The moment the cables fell on the floor, James flexed his hands with a wince to renew the blood circulation, while Spock worked on the cables wrapped around his feet, aware of the man’s gaze on the top of his head.

Finally, James stood and stretched bodily, looking around the house, no doubt in hopes of locating the stone; however, Spock was confident in his choice of a hiding place: without intricate knowledge of the house or at least a day of free time he wouldn’t be able to find and access it. Seemingly reaching the same conclusion, James collected everything Spock took out of the belt instead.

He wiped the sweat off this face and fanned himself. Now that his hands were free James was waving them around in addition to the countless facial expressions.

“Is it just me or is it hot in here?”

James sent a grin Spock’s way as if he has made a joke; however, Spock saw nothing humorous in his words. Perhaps erratic behaviour was this species characteristic.

“Sensation of temperature is subjective, therefore while the temperature is within norm for me it could feel high for your organism. The temperature here is 30 degrees Centigrade with a 0.1 degree error margin.”

The man whistled. “Where are you from, Oven land?” He muttered.

“No, I am from Iowa, the region we are currently residing in. But if you inquire after my species, which might be the reason for the temperature differences in our bodies, I am Romulan.”

“Huh,” James frowned, gaze flicking to Spock’s forehead for a moment, “I could’ve sworn you are a- nevermind,” he shook his head. “I don’t even know your name yet, Mr. Romulan.”

“My name is Spock,” and, too curious to resist, added, “What species are you?”

James’s eyes boggled further than ever before.

“…Human.”

Spock nodded in understanding; James confirmed his suspicions. What little he read about humans seemed to fit this man’s characteristics: in the articles Spock examined humans were described as notoriously emotional, having red blood and rather weak bodies.

“Right… Just when I thought this day couldn’t get any weirder. How about we move out already?” Despite posing this as a question, James moved towards the entry door and began working on the control panel. “Tick-tock, time is money.”

“Time and money are different concepts, they are not interchangeable,” Spock said, confused as to why this apparently smart man couldn’t understand such basic ideas.

James looked at the ceiling with an exasperated sigh. “It’s just an expression. Are you always so literal?”

Spock would’ve answered in any other situation, but that moment the door beeped and swished open, and Spock was faced with the true weight of what he was about to do.

Defying everything he was brought up to be, going against the caretaker’s better judgement to fulfil a selfish desire, putting both Nero and himself in danger for the sake of a whim – he could imagine the looks of disappointment he would receive in great detail. But now that he was presented with an opportunity, he could no longer deny the desire to leave his house even for a little while; there was so much new knowledge out there that couldn’t be summarized in texts. Another opportunity like this might never come; it would only be logical to use it.

Meanwhile, James was already out of the door, and sunlight made his hair an even more golden colour than before (what an illogical concept, colour can’t be ‘more’, it’s just a colour…)

“Are you coming? I wasn’t joking about time being money, you know, the sooner I get my artefact back the better.”

So Spock took a step.

He could faintly sense stems of grass bent under the soles of his naked feet, his sense of smell was assaulted with various scents ranging from sweet to bitter, and the sunlight shone a lot brighter than the fake light at the house, but Spock found that the brightness was welcomed. He looked directly at the sun, bringing the inner eyelids down – finally they could be put to their intended use.

Spock gently lowered on his knees, enjoying the sensation of grass pressing against his knees through the thin fabric, and plucked a single grass blade. Its rough texture slid against his fingers, leaving a faint trace of bitter smelling juice.

“You alright? You kinda dropped down over here,” James’s voice asked closely, and Spock rose back on his feet.

“I am adequate. My reaction is natural as I have never been outside.”

James’s mouth fell open.

“Never? You mean _ever_?”

“Why are you surprised? I have made it clear I do not know how to open the lock.”

“Yeah, I figured you rarely go outside, but _never…_ That’s rough.”

The last words were said with a new tone, something lower and somehow more serious.

James rocked on the balls of his feet, while Spock inspected the patch of flowers growing nearby, shivering slightly. He wasn’t cold, but after the unchanging comfort of the house the sudden decrease in temperature affected his organism.

Finally, James spoke. “Look, I get that it’s shocking to you and you need to adapt and stuff, but I really can’t spend time picking flowers. We can look at everything life has to offer on our way to the spaceport, just let’s get this deal over with and get out of each others’ hair, alright?”

Spock turned around and walked back through the invisible door briskly, touching his hair – but there was nothing amiss, it seems James simply used another one of his fascinating idioms.

“You tired of the outside world already?” James called after him, and Spock frowned inwardly at the hopeful tone.

“I will need boots and warmer clothes,” he explained, undressing and picking up his favourite robe made of soft and thick dark grey material. “What is a spaceport? I know what a regular port is, it hosts the ships you spoke of, however, I admit that the addition of the word space is puzzling to me. Is the port in question unusually spacious?” He asked, while pulling the robe over his head and retying the blue sash around his waist. When no answer came he assumed James didn’t hear him – but then he saw him, standing in the doorway, eyes almost completely round. The multitude of emotions his facial features displayed was too complicated to decipher, so Spock simply repeated his question.

“Uh,” James ran a hand through his hair and his eyes darted among the machinery in Spock’s bedroom, even though there wasn’t a lot to look at: just the computer for playing chess and two massive padds with small yellow screens where some articles about botany were recorded.

“Spaceport means _space-_ ” he pointed in the sky, “-port. For starships, to travel to other planets. Like Romulus, you know, where _Romulans_ come from.”

All in all Spock was proud of his control. He willed away the blood that threatened to colour his face, seized the tremors in his arms and sudden weakness in his legs, forcing them to still. The only muscles he moved to display his inner turmoil were his eyelids, as he blinked once, then twice. When he studied biology, he has always suspected the development of so many different sentient species in one area was impossible, but when he asked Nero about it, he never answered coherently.

Now he knew why.

But, of course, he understood; Nero was worried about him, like all adults worry about children under their care (something he learned from another psychology textbook), and he must’ve known that if Spock learnt about possibilities of space travel, it would be illogical for him to stay in one place, he would leave into the world where everyone would want to kill him or use him as soon as they learnt he was a telepath.

“I see,” he said. “How long were we capable of doing this?”

“Three hundred years, give or take,” James replied, voice strangely tense and not bearing the previously present sardonic undertone.

“I see,” Spock said again, a little dumbly.

“No wonder everything’s so ancient in here,” James’s barely audible mutter followed.

At least now he knew his decision to ask James to be his guide was the correct one. He would go to the spaceport, experience something he never knew before – there was nothing as exciting as acquiring new knowledge! – and he would prove Nero he is capable of taking care of himself. After that, asking James to teach him to hack the lock wouldn’t be necessary because Nero would remove the force field. But Spock would still ask him to do it, because acquiring new knowledge was the only thing that brought him peace.

“Shall we go?” Spock asked, and as he passed James, he finally recognized one of the emotions he had; after all, it was something he sensed in his teachers before.

Pity.

***

As they ventured through the caves and out to the outskirts of the town, Spock moved with what could only be described as tense curiosity. He looked like he wanted to spend hours examining every little thing holding it within a millimetre away from his eyes, and at the same time was afraid everything, even ladybugs, would kill him.

At first it was kind of amusing for Jim, but then it was just sad. To imagine himself in such a situation, never being able to leave his stepfather’s house, practically being a prisoner... Jim was itching to ask him for his story, but his every attempt was met with a blank look and ignorance, which clearly meant the topic was off-limits.

Furthermore, he really couldn’t afford being charitable at the moment. Even though he could never refuse someone in need, the gaping void where the stone should be was burning a hole in his pouch, and the impending doom of the mercenaries who would certainly have his head if he fails to deliver it was towering over him – quite literally; he had no idea what species the mercenary leader was, which meant he might as well be from a planet still practising cannibalism.

The stone was the only chance he would get at having a normal life, in space, far away from Earth – and the closeness of reaching his goal seemed a lot more substantial than helping a man he’s just met with something he could probably do himself; at least, that’s what the _rational_ part of his brain said. Although, compared to the life on the run being attached to the hip with a naïve Romulan was an improvement. Besides, it was a very hot Romulan, easily the most attractive man Jim’s ever seen, with his piercing dark eyes and strong arms that could lift him like a bag of feathers…

...who was currently ten meters behind on his knees again, running a single finger over the petals of a flower.

Jim sighed and went back, ready to holster him up by force.

“It is _convolvulus arvensis_ ,” Spock offered as if it explained everything. “The article I read about this species has not mentioned the blossoms of a single specimen could possess different colours.”

“Well, us peasants call them bindweeds,” Jim said. It was hard to be truly angry at the guy when this face was almost losing its previous blank mask (usually associated with Vulcans) – it probably was his version of excitement.

He wondered if Spock was brought up by Vulcans, but dismissed the idea immediately; with so few Vulcans left having a bunch of them living away from the colony and adopting children of other species when so many of their own were orphaned was unheard of.

When Spock gave no indication he was about to stand up in the nearest future, Jim sighed.

He reached out to pull Spock up by upper arms, and then suddenly the world flipped over and Jim was lying flat on his back, air knocked out of his lungs and a sharp elbow was digging into his throat, painful even through layers of fabric: this was their only point of contact, and the only reason Spock didn’t crush him was his other arm that supported most of what felt like 200 pounds of his weight. Jim couldn’t suppress a smidgen of fear crossing his mind even if he wanted to.

For a moment, the only things that existed were Spock’s narrowed dark brown eyes, and his low firm voice, saying, “Never, under no circumstances you will touch me.”

Then he stood up swiftly, as if nothing happened, and Jim followed, coughing and feeling his throat. The bruises were guaranteed.

“What the fuck?” He managed to gasp through the burn. The last time he was hurt this much was when he was caught in a brawl between the mercenaries and nearly cracked his skull after being hit with a shovel.

One damn eyebrow raised.

“You must not touch me,” Spock repeated politely. Honestly, Jim didn’t think it was worth trying to ask why; he didn’t have to be a fortune-teller to predict he wasn’t going to get a straight answer.

Alright, so the placid attitude of wide-eyed naivety was a trick: the guy knew how to fight. Sneaking behind him and knocking him out was out of question. Although this did give Jim an idea: if Spock reacted this way to a friendly touch, imagine how pissed he could be when he got into a conglomeration of loud smelly gropy bar dwellers. It wasn’t the same as picking flowers. With Jim’s luck Spock would realize he isn’t fit for the adventure he has planning and decide to cut it short on his own.

“Are you hungry?” Jim exclaimed with as much as fake cheer as he could manage. Anyone in their right mind would roll their eyes at how obvious he’s being. Spock simply stared, passive.

“No, I have already acquired daily amount of necessary nutrients,” Spock answered mildly.

“You are supposed to say yes.”

“I said the truth, I am not hungry.”

“My friend,” Jim chided, “if you truly want me to be your guide in the outside world, you are going to have to agree with all my propositions, especially the fun ones.”

“I am not your friend, James.”

Jim glared at him, tugging the black shirt’s collar higher. Perhaps he could pass the bruises for hickeys to avoid the stares.

The glare seemed to work wonders, because Spock said, “My apologies, it seems I have misunderstood the ritual. Ask me again.”

“Are you hungry, Mr. Spock?”

“Yes, James. Please note that I am lying as per your request.”

“Great! I know an amazing place, top-notch, high-class, just for you. But please, call me Jim. Only my mother calls me James, and god knows, I don’t need that reminder today.”

“Very well, Jim,” Spock inclined his head with regal grace. “Is James not your real name?”

“Huh? No, it’s real, Jim is just a short form of James.”

Spock pondered the information and finally said, “This makes no sense. The letter I in _‘Jim’_ is superfluous, it does not correlate with any sound in ‘ _James_ ’. Therefore, if you wished to shorten your name, it would be more logical to call you Jam.”

That was said with such authority, as if Spock had a PhD in anthroponomastics.

“If you call me Jam I’m going to hit you, the stupid no touching rule be damned.”

“It would not be wise, as I have demonstrated superior strength and reflexes on multiple occasions during our short acquaintance,” Spock replied, as if explaining the laws of nature.

Smug bastard. Oh well, _The Duck_ (or _The Snugly Duckling_ as it was nicknamed by creative/drunk patrons) was the stupidest name for a club and attracted the expected contingent that would hopefully knock some sense under that neatly combed hair.

***

Tongue was a muscle, so it could get sore from too much exercise, right? Jim certainly felt that after talking non-stop for the duration of the journey to the bar, answering endless ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ Spock was spewing like a particularly hardass Academy professor during an astrophysics exam. Not that he knew what the professors in the Academy were like, of course.

Although Jim had to admit that I felt real nice to have someone give him such undivided attention while letting him talk about the things he enjoyed – the last time this happened he was five, and his mother was listening to his babbling about the new starship model she gifted him.

At first Jim was afraid telling Spock about warp core drives would be like talking to a brick wall, but to his utter surprise, Spock’s brain was going a mile per minute, absorbing and processing information with computer-like efficiency, increased by his own admirable desire for knowledge. This could prompt nothing but immense respect, and Jim could even forgive him for his still throbbing throat. It was almost unfair that they had to meet in such circumstances.

Soon enough, they firstly saw the outskirts of the city and then a gauche small club tucked in the corner of a narrow street; the colours of early twilight thrown at the building made it look even cheaper than it was. Spock stared at it with intensity, as if the dirtiest corner of Riverside was the greatest state of the art thing he’s ever seen.

Jim swiped a finger over the sensor, and the door of the club swished open, the darkness and strobe lights illuminating the small space swallowing them. Their ears were immediately assaulted by the loud music blasting from the sound system, playing a mix of old pop songs and latest hits from all around the universe. Judging by the way Spock’s face turned into an even blanker mask, he wasn’t a fan of Cresendia system’s music stylings, especially when they were accompanied by a couple of humans singing along from a table nearby, horribly off-tune.

This was the beauty off shitty god-forsaken clubs: even in a relatively early evening you could always found someone already trashed on alcohol here. About half of small round tables were occupied, the rest of the patrons jerking erratically to the beat on the dancefloor; several bar stools were taken as well, served by a single redheaded bartender in suspenders and a bowtie masterfully mixing multiple neon cocktails at the same time.

If the sight of drunks would fail to turn Spock off, Jim kind of hoped that either he would get tipsy enough to decide to cut the fun earlier and give Jim back the artefact. Every moment spent on Earth is a moment closer to being caught by Federation Security or dissatisfied mercenaries who would think he decided to sell the stone someone else.

Jim grinned at Spock and beckoned him inside, striding confidently towards the bartender.

“Look at them,” he spread his hands wide, gesturing at the patrons, “brutal, savage, unprincipled, uncivilized – the prime examples of homo sapiens, the very flower of humanity. You sure you want to stay?”

Spock looked over the patrons – mostly humans but with some aliens mixed in – at the group demanding more booze from the bartender, a man asleep at the counter, ignoring the ear-shattering music, a woman shaking with laughter and spilling a drink over her dress, others who leaned at the walls and each other for support, and the dancers grinding together on the dancefloor. He looked back and Jim and flicked an eyebrow up.

“Of course I do. What would you say is the finest observation point?”

“In the middle of the action, of course,” Jim pointed at the two vacant stools at the counter, feeling his respect for Spock grow; enough to overcome the disappointment from the failed jab.

They made their way through the groups of patrons, with Spock jerking away any time there was a threat of potential contact, and Jim couldn’t help but think it wasn’t just a result of living in seclusion, there was something else. For the first time Jim thought that perhaps he should hand the man over to the authorities to help him deal with whatever situation he was in.

But doing this meant being questioned as a witness, thus confessing stealing the stone, which meant either a prison or murderous wrath of the mercenaries, but most likely both. Jim flopped on a stool and drummed his fingers on the counter, pondering between morally right choices and choices that wouldn’t result in his immediate imprisonment.

Perhaps he could take Spock home and tip the cops off anonymously, this way by the time Spock told them about his involvement, Jim would be somewhere nice, like Risa, sipping cocktails.

“Starfleet is in the house!” Jim announced to the vaguely familiar bartender, flicking the pin on his chest. “A shot of the finest Romulan ale for my Romulan friend, please!”

The bartender – a red-haired woman with neatly arranged short curls and a nametag with a single letter J – narrowed her eyes and her curls puffed up in indignation.

“You are banned for life here, Jim Kirk.”

Oh crap. So that’s why she seemed familiar; the only reason Jim didn’t recognize her right away was because the last time in this club his face was mauled so much he could barely see his own fingers, on that fateful night when he had to be handled into the hospital where he met a certain grumpy doctor...

But right now Jim flashed J a smile.

“C’mon, old buddy, old pal, what’s a few lifetimes between friends? I swear, I’m here only to chaperone this guy, I won’t drink a drop of liquor and won’t start a single fight – here, take these credits as a deposit,” he threw fifty credits on the counter, “If I misbehave, they are all yours.”

Another advantage The Duck had was its loose policies and willingness to close their eyes when convenient – like when being offered a bribe.

“You are not my friend,” J huffed, but took the credits anyway. She glanced at Spock, eyeing him with great suspicion. Surprisingly, she didn’t spend too much time examining his ears, instead focusing on the clothes, particularly the sash. “Kirk doesn’t have _any_ friends.”

“Ouch, you wound me,” Jim pressed a hand to his chest in mostly mocking horror. He learnt too long ago to ignore whatever people said about him, but sometimes the words still wormed their way under his skin. Oh well, if everything went as planned, after they leave the bar he would get the artefact back and fly away and live on Risa forever surrounded by enormous piles of money and people who didn’t know his name.

With a sigh so loud it was heard even over the deafening music, the bartender placed a shot glass full of antifreeze-coloured liquid in front of Spock. Spock’s gaze flicked down for a split second and bore into Jim again.

“You do not appear wounded. Moreover, words are incapable of inflicting physical injury. Why did you lie?”

Jim sighed, tapping his foot to the rhythm of Nicki Minaj singing about starships2.

“I simply exaggerated, for laughs, you know. It’s called sarcasm.”

“I see,” it must’ve been Spock’s go-to reply when he was stuck without an immediate and correct answer. “I have observed your tendency to use untrue words to convey facts in approximately forty percent of our communications that did not include discussion of scientific discoveries. Either you find every situation humorous or it is the way your species communicate.”

“Yeah, both are about right,” Jim shrugged at the verbose explanation.

“It must create unnecessary complications in communication,” Spock said with a hint of accusation, as if Jim was solely responsible for his species’ oddities.

“Nah, we’ve learned how to tell sarcasm and seriousness apart,” he paused to pour himself a glass of tap water from a machine giving it out for free nearby. “You’ve got a scientist’s mind, you know?”

“I have studied theoretical sciences only,” maybe Jim imagined that, but Spock’s tone was faintly regretful. “My practical knowledge, as well as familiarity with certain fields is severely lacking. Thus, I have decided my decision to take you as my guide was the correct one.”

“I don’t know _everything_. You can’t rely on me as a sole source of information.”

“That is most likely correct. However, the explanations you provided were highly informative and you have proven to be well-versed on various subjects, therefore, the tone of protest you used is unwarranted.”

Jim took another sip to cover the fact that in a long time he was unsure how to reply. The man obviously didn’t even realize he was saying a compliment, disguising it by words of rationality, which made it all the more valuable.

“Thanks,” he settled on saying.

“What are you thankful for? I did not do anything warranting gratitude.”

“Well, you said a nice thing, so I’m thanking you. It’s customary.”

Spock nodded, absorbing and adapting to the new piece of information immediately. Honestly, it was incredible to watch.

“In this case I must thank you as well. When you said I have a scientist’s mind it was the highest praise.”

Jim stood up, shaking his head; he had to stop before this exchange of niceties turned into something unnecessary that would get him sidetracked. He really wished they could meet under different circumstances.

Jim’s initial plan was to introduce Spock to one of the patrons and dump him onto his new tour guide. However, now that he saw the patrons, none of them seemed suitable – or deserving – such a responsibility. Spock would definitely ask them about warp cores or tractor beams, and they just didn’t look smart enough to be able to satisfy his vast curiosity.

‘ _Never judge a book by its cover,_ ’ Jim’s inner voice said, _‘that’s what you always say about yourself’._

 _‘Yes,’_ Jim replied, feeling a sudden wave of selfishness, _‘but this time I don’t want to be fair.’_

Pushed the thoughts away, he focused on the present. He had a mission and a plan. He would get Spock tipsy, then they would go back to his house, talk about space just a little bit more, because the points he made were truly engaging, and part ways as memorable acquaintances.

“You’re welcome,” Jim grumbled, pushing the untouched shot glass towards Spock. “Drink it. I’ll go get something from the replicators.”

The only real food in a dingy place like this was snacks, but at least the replicators were up-to-date enough to get rid of the bland plastic aftertaste.

His retreat was tactical on many levels, one of them being the ability to observe Spock sitting rigidly by the counter, pressing into it to avoid humans and aliens passing too close to him.

Spock sniffed the glass and took a small sip, paused to assess the taste, and then Jim bent down to punch in a code for two cheeseburgers; he was gone for two minutes tops, but when he got back, there were three empty glasses next to Spock, and the bartender was pouring a fourth one with a semblance of respect.

“The taste is quite pleasant,” Spock said, drinking the ale as if it was orange juice.

“Careful with that, I don’t want to have to drag your drunk ass back home,” Jim frowned. Sure, that’s what he _actually_ wanted, but there was a difference between a clever plan (getting someone tipsy and open to suggestions) and an asshole move (getting a man drunk and leaving him alone to deal with the first hangover).

“You should’ve come here yesterday,” the bartender chattered; her smile was wide, but she also had a weirdly calculating look, “we had a drinking contest, and I’ve never seen anyone hold the Romulan ale like this one. Isn’t it supposed to knock you guys dead? Where the hell do you find these people, Kirk?”

“The alcohol tolerance level is subjective,” Spock’s immediate reply came, although he seemed to contemplate the question after falling silent.

“Why would I tell you, so that you could grab all the best guys to yourself?” Jim smiled at J tightly, wishing she would stop hovering over them already. There were about five more customers at the counter, and yet she was glued to their side. He could feel this woman was trouble – and not the fun kind of trouble – and his gut feeling was rarely wrong.

He surveyed the room for potential disasters and determined that the two drunk singers from before were most likely to start a fight – he had an eye for people like this. Perhaps if they moved to the upper level of the room, they would get better vantage point in observing the fight that will definitely start...

He pushed the burger towards Spock and bit into his own.

“I thank you for your offering,” Spock said, inspecting plate with an air of professional food critic. “However, I am a vegetarian.”

“Your guy is a hoot! I sure do want one!” J exclaimed in glee, pouring Spock a fifth shot.

“Excuse me?” Spock raised one eyebrow, and then J made a mistake: she leered and patted Spock’s hand.

Predictably, Spock flinched violently, flying backwards off the stool – and just about when Jim wondered why _he_ got an elbow to the throat and some bar creep _didn’t_ , Spock collided with one if the singers.

The man swirled around, taking in Spock’s expression of pure neutrality that screamed non-offensive through swollen eyes, and snarled, “Watch where you’re going, you green-blooded Vulcan shithead.”

Jim was fully aware of the prejudices against Vulcans, and stepped in to divert some of attention on himself immediately.

“He’s a Romulan.”

That was a wrong thing to say.

The man’s face darkened. “Romulans... How dare you come here after everything you’ve done – you piece of shit cold pointy-eared alien bastard, go back to your hellhole dump of a planet! The Earth is for the Federation, I _know_ you’re spying on us to drill into our planet next!!”

The last words were shouted – several patrons turned their heads in curiosity.

Jim cringed internally. He took Spock to the bar to show him a bunch of loud drunks, not xenophobic assholes.

“We have not met before,” Spock said, and his calm tone seemed to infuriate the man even more. “That is why I could not have done anything to you.”

“YOU KILLED MY SON!!” He bellowed and swung a fist at Spock, whose inhuman reflexes allowed him predict the move and slide away to avoid it. The man spluttered and shouted at the entirety of the patrons, every one of whom was now watching. “What are you looking at, help me teach this Romulan piece of shit a lesson!”

For Jim, there was no time to question his own motivation – the moment the man charged again, Jim barrelled in his stomach with something akin to a war cry.

With his equilibrium thrown off, the man stumbled and crushed into an Orion, spilling the drinks she was holding all over her suit – and then everyone was falling like a row of dominoes.

“Hey!” The Orion exclaimed and pushed the man away, causing him to crush into another woman, who slapped him, but missed and hit his friend.

The bartender simply pretended to be non-existent; it seems Jim’s plan to choose a loose establishment backfired.

Spock sidestepped another punch, sharp eyes assessing the surroundings, body drawn tight in a practiced self-defence stance, making no unnecessary movements; to Jim’s surprise, he didn’t seem to be the person who runs away from the danger. The next moment a hand grabbed Spock’s hair, tugging him backwards; Spock grabbed his wrist immediately and flipped the man over, pulling himself free. Jim spared him one last glance before diving into the heat of the brawl fully, tripping one man while kicking another under the knees.

Soon no one even remembered who started it – Jim was catching glimpses of Spock in the midst of the fight, implementing the tactic of avoidance, never attacking anyone.

And then, after ducking a punch from another guy, Jim found himself face to face with a buff alien swinging a bar stool into his head.

Jim covered his head instinctively, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to stop a hit like this – but within a second from the stool crushing his skull the alien made a weird gurgling noise, their eyes rolled, and they slumped down with a terrible noise – and there was Spock, with his hand outstretched to where he has just touched their neck.

Jim opened his mouth to thank him, or maybe ask what the hell that was, but right at that moment a stern female voice rang loud and clear, “Starfleet investigation, nobody leaves! We are looking for a robbery suspect.”

Jim looked over the heads of confused patrons, and saw the woman in black uniform showing a padd with an identikit – it was too far away, but a holograph of a mop of blond hair was unmistakable. He glared in the bartender’s direction – she must’ve been the one to tip them off, he knew she was trouble – but she was nowhere to be found.

The Starfleet officer was accompanied by two more people, an older Tellarite in blacks – a Federation Security agent, and a human woman Jim’s age, in cadet reds.

Shit.

This was the worst part: Jim knew Cadet Uhura (read: tried to hit on her in another bar and got his ass handed to him), and even if she didn’t suspect _him_ exactly at the moment, she would never let him leave without pointing him out.

He tugged Spock by the ends of the sash and whispered, “Get down.”

Crouching, they sneaked behind the counter and Spock cocked his head to the side.

“Just trust me,” Jim muttered in lieu of explanation, and, surprisingly, Spock followed without an objection.

Jim quickly calculated his escape ways; it was impossible to get to the exit unnoticed, however, the door for the staff was right in front of them.

Jim tugged Spock’s sash again, which was conveniently long and allowed him to communicate his intentions without actually touching him.

Spock’s eyes flicked to the Starfleet pin on Jim’s chest and back to his face, unasked question hanging loud in the air. Jim shook his head again and directed them through the door leading to the tiny kitchen, thanking Spock’s sensibility of staying quiet.

As per proper procedure during a security operation, all the exits sealed themselves automatically, including windows, and Jim pulled out his instruments and started breaking the lock on the backdoor immediately. Spock was gazing intently at the Starfleet pin, contemplating something, and Jim wasn’t sure he would like the results. He really didn’t want his presumably last day on Earth to end with Spock betraying him to the investigation department that now was questioning the patrons without letting anyone out.

“Let’s just say not every Starfleet officer is happy to see me,” he muttered, wishing the door would just give in already. “We had a few misunderstandings in the past.”

To say the least.

Just when Jim was about to cut the final wire there was shuffling behind them, and Uhura peeked inside the room, stopping dead once she saw them. Jim swore under his breath.

Her eyes widened in realization and she open her mouth, turning towards the main area of the club – and Jim could think of nothing better than jumping in front of her, throwing his hands forward in desperation.

“No-no-no, wait, don’t do it! I swear whatever you’re accusing me of is not true!”

Uhura was entirely unimpressed. With a flick of her finger she activated the padd and showed him the identikit – and Jim breathed out a sigh of relief. Sure, if someone _really_ wanted they could see Jim’s face in the picture, but it was still pretty generic and could fit hundreds of other blonde white men in the area. Besides, it had a giant potato where his nose should be. Jim groaned internally: he was usually careful to avoid witnesses, and his time he didn’t even find one with an ability to describe what they saw.

“We asked the witnesses after the robbery. This looks an awful lot like you,” Uhura said.

“Seriously, this guy?” Jim summoned his most charming smile. “Have you seen his nose? I would never allow this abomination to be on my face.”

If possible, Uhura’s face turned even more blandly unimpressed. The woman has certainly mastered her art of communicating with expressions – no wonder she chose to major in Linguistics in the Academy.

“You can ignore the nose.”

“How can I ignore the nose if it’s a prominent part of my face-”

“The point is, Kirk,” Uhura interrupted, “an innocent man would not escape through a backdoor when an investigation is taking place.”

“Are you employing human sarcasm?” Spock said suddenly, and Jim glanced at him, trying to send him a nonverbal signal to shut up. Bringing him into this would certainly make things worse.

Uhura tilted her head, eyeing his pointed ears with a frown, no doubt wondering how on Earth Jim ended up in association with a Romulan.

“Who are you, an accomplice?”

Spock pondered her question – or rather, Jim had the strangest impression that he was _pretending_ to be pondering for an act.

“The term accomplice implies me being his subordinate, however, this is not the case here. This entire situation is my initiative. The only reason James is here is because I took him as my guide. I entrusted him with showing me the specifics of the planet we are currently situated on, and this includes going to this establishment. I am at fault for the fight as well, it started because James wished to protect me from the xenophobic comments of the patrons.”

Uhura eyed him, scrutinizing, and they stared at each other for a long moment, and finally the suspecting look left her eyes and she said, “Your people can’t lie, can they... how did you end up with Kirk of all people anyway?”

“Affirmative,” Spock had an innocent earnest look no one would be able to resist. “We met up by accident, and I convinced him to be my guide in the city I have not visited prior. In fact, I am in quite a hurry to get to the spaceport – time is money, as your species say – and I would appreciate not being held up by needless questioning, even if means an escape using abnormal means,” he gestured at the backdoor.

Uhura sighed.

“Logical. Maybe you really are innocent this time, Kirk. However, you also fit the profile, and my duties dictate I have to question every suspect. It will not take long,” Uhura told Spock. “We’ll just-“

Someone cleared their throat.

“Excuse me, Miss Investigator?” The bartender said, peeking inside the kitchen. “I found your culprit. Human, male, early twenties, right? He was selling illegal substances to the patrons. Right under my very nose,” he lamented, pressing a hand over her bowtie.

Taken aback, Uhura looked at the bartender: of course it must’ve been unpleasant to discover something she’s been certain in was a mistake. She also must’ve realized her personal opinion of Jim was clouding her judgement (even if it _was_ correct this time).

“Oh. Thank you for your assistance. I’ll check him out,” she looked at Jim with discontent. “There is nothing else you are officially accused of. I guess you are free to go once we apprehend him, although I’m sure there’s a ton of other misdeeds you are responsible for.”

“Nothing you have proof for,” Jim sent her a trademark bright grin, but she only scowled. J snickered.

If there was a less honourable person in Uhura’s place, Jim would’ve already been in handcuffs; but she would never arrest anyone without solid proof. Thank god for the presumption of innocence.

Spock inclined his head regally, “You have my gratitude, Miss...”

“Uhura,” she replied. “Nyota Uhura. And you are?”

“Spock.”

Jim was aware his mouth fell open into an unattractive O shape at the sight of her small smile. What was it about Spock that managed to mellow (or shock) the fierceness out of Uhura and even convinced her to give her first name?

Perhaps it was the sincerity and weight with which he spoke, like his every word was the most important thing they could hear today. Or perhaps it was his eyes, dark and piercing, holding none of the naivety Jim originally believed he possessed, but full of immense intelligence instead – shown both in their conversations and situation where quick thinking was needed.

With a last reproachful look at Jim – probably remembering the last time they saw each other – she ordered them to stay put and disappeared from the kitchen. J followed, throwing them a tiny departing smile and a wink.

The sense of unease grew tenfold.

But Jim didn’t mull it over, instead focusing on cutting the wire that disabled the lock on the door, letting them out into the murky dusk with a heavy rubber scent only a city could have.

If later someone would ask Jim when his treatment of Spock changed he would pinpoint this exact moment. Spock has demonstrated many admirable and surprising qualities: quick thinking, power of conviction, physical strength – nothing of the first impression of an aloof naive man who didn’t understand the most basic things.

Jim set up a brisk place to get away from the club as quick as possible, and Spock’s long legs fell into step with him easily, carrying them through the streets towards the centre of the town. Jim chose the narrowest, emptiest streets: Riverside wasn’t as diverse as, say, San Francisco, and was mostly populated by humans, which meant Spock attracted a lot of unneeded attention, which also meant Jim was being looked at. And now that he knew Starfleet was hot on their trails, but would do anything to avoid it. He was certain in his mastery of blending in with the surroundings though, and the fact that no one has called out for them yet proved it.

The protests Jim voiced about cutting their deal short became mostly token at this point: while he had decided to focus on looking after himself not so long ago (following his mother’s example), he wasn’t the type of person to refuse someone help they so obviously needed. Sure, he still wanted to get the artefact, and choosing his own happiness against the stranger’s was _rational_ , but he also thought it was no crime to spend just a little bit more time with Spock, figuring out his mysterious life story he has became very interested in.

After all, people were supposed to be self-indulgent on their birthdays.

“That fighting was pretty amazing,” Jim grinned as they walked past Orion-Human fusion restaurant, basking in spicy scents. “Who knew you were capable of knocking people out like that? Is that what you did to me what I broke into your house?”

“I must not speak of the technique I used,” maybe Jim was imagining things, but he could hear a slight disconcert in Spock’s monotone.

“Why not?”

“I cannot disclose the reasons,” Spock paused, glancing at Jim sideways. “Also I would rather not repeat my earlier actions again.”

“I don’t see why not, it saved our asses in a pretty awesome way.”

“I have broken the rule about using violence,” now disconcert was pretty obvious. “As I live according to the teachings of Surak, it was against my beliefs.”

“Oh,” was the only thing Jim managed to say. Now he was definitely convinced Spock was raised by Vulcans – where else could he have gotten a hold of the teachings of the most tight-lipped nation in the universe?

Spock seemed to interpret his silence in a wrong way, because he asked, “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Jim waved his hands, “it’s just weird. Never thought I’d see a Romulan embracing Vulcan philosophies.”

“What is a _Vulcan_? I have heard multiple references to this word today in relation to myself.”

...Honestly, Jim had so many surprises today, this one was at the bottom of the list.

“It’s a planet – was a planet. It was destroyed,” he glanced at Spock sideways, “by Romulans. They are always at each other’s throats.”

Spock didn’t give any indication of his reaction to the announcement that his people were responsible to destroying an entire world, he simply asked, “Why?”

“I don’t know? It’s a millennia-old cultural thing, they are too similar in biology and too different in ideology. Romulans hate Vulcans, Vulcans will never admit it, but they hate Romulans too, and who can blame them… Why do you think everyone mistakes you for a Vulcan? You look and behave just like them. This Surak guy was a Vulcan too, he’s like their famous prophet or something.”

Spock inclined his head in understanding.

“One of the reasons I denounce violence is that I have been warned about the dangers of emotion ever since I was young. Emotions are destructive, I think you will not argue after what you witnessed earlier. The emotions I read from the man who started the fight were...” He seemed to struggle with finding the correct words, “extreme forms of grief and anger, he blamed me for the misdoings of my people even though I did not take part in them and was not aware of their existence.”

“A lot of people died that day,” Jim didn’t try to use the fake nonchalant tone he usually had when someone asked him about Vulcan, so the words came out flat. “That guy’s friends or family must have been there.”

“He did mention the death of his son. However, it is illogical to let grief affect one’s judgement, especially when so many years have passed. Grief would not change anything, and attacking someone for it would not revive a dead person.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I do. I have lost my biological parents too – that is obvious, since I do not know them – even though I have not been actively present at that moment. Regret is an emotion I do not feel, and even if I did, I know that regretting their loss would be redundant.”

Jim huffed at the emotionless rationality of the words.

Although there was some sense in his words, a sentiment Jim sometimes considered himself – obsessing with the dead could never have a positive outcome, and there was no point in attachment to dead people whom you’ve never known beyond sympathy; but still—

“Imagine you lost your caretaker then right now, wouldn’t you feel just _a tiny bit_ sad?”

“Sadness is an emotion,” Spock cut him off. “We must not engage in imaginary scenarios unless they provide clues to the ways we can correct our behaviour in the future. Although in this case, perhaps I would... _disapprove_ of not being able to tell my caretaker about his mistake in judging the outside world.”

“Mistake in judging?” Jim echoed. “What did he tell you?”

“The same words you did – how savage and murderous the inhabitants are. And while the majority of the visitors in the club proved this concept, I have also encountered two people acting outside presumed parameters: Miss Uhura, who was understanding and rational despite her affiliation with opposing forces, and you,” Spock nodded at him shortly. “We are not close, and yet you decided to protect me from the unpleasant words of the patrons.”

“Yeah, well…” Jim rubbed the back of his head, unsure what to do with out-of-nowhere praise.

“Therefore, this concludes that the caretaker’s hypothesis I believed in was incorrect, and it warrants an investigation, and you will not persuade me otherwise,” Spock glanced at him meaningfully, showing that he knew full well what Jim was trying to do. “And even if the rest of the population of the galaxy falls into the ‘savage’ category, the two examples I spoke of will make this worth it.”

“Huh,” Jim said.

He couldn’t decide if Spock’s mindset was idealistic and about to be burnt to the ground; or admirably optimistic, unwavering even against the strongest of forces.

“Well. Still, you saving us was pretty cool. Thanks,” he smiled and received another nod in reply.

It was truly unfortunate they had to meet this way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The bar scene illustration.](http://leifor.tumblr.com/post/162440728518/an-illustration-i-did-for-the-fic-out-of)


	2. Chapter 2

A shuttle transported them to the shipyard in a matter of minutes.

As the less notable sights of crops and factories were wheezing by Spock continued asking Jim about everything that came to mind – mostly the technology and scientific progress. He knew that eventually Jim would grow tired of this (if there was anything he learned from Nero it was that the emotional species had very short tempers), so it was logical to get the most out of Jim before he asked him to stop.

Jim’s stories brought not only satisfaction, but a sense of disappointment as well. Wastefulness was one of the few things Spock simply couldn’t stand, and now he was realizing he wasted his entire life on something that has already been invented. Now he knew that most likely every time he asked Nero to pass the results of his research to someone in hopes of contributing to the society he didn’t comply – but didn’t tell it because he wanted to “spare” Spock’s non-existent feelings.

Spock already knew about the expeditions on all of the planets in solar system, and of course he wanted to go further – he even tried developing his own interstellar engine, an ambitious project that ultimately failed, both because of the lack of information and because there was no way of testing the result.

But now he was listening to Jim gush about the newest ship in Starfleet (obviously he had an attachment to it), how amazing the exploration of uncharted space will be on its board. Spock would prefer if Jim would simply relay the facts; his expressiveness affected Spock’s own emotional state, which he found disconcerting. The last time he was pushed beyond the boundaries of his emotions was when he was three; now that he was older he was sure the breakdown would be even more destructive to himself and the ones surrounding him.

Logically, Spock understood that every new thing he encountered over the course of his trip would seem impressive, simply because of the uneventfulness of his earlier life. He was overcompensating, absorbing as much information as he can, no matter what field it was from.

Still, the sight of the enormous ship they arrived to was incredibly impressive. It towered over them, four hundred meters tall, alive with the workers and machines: Jim has told him it was near completion, there was only a year or so to go.

“The Enterprise,” Jim introduced unnecessarily. “Pretty anti-climatic seeing how we can’t go in, isn’t it.”

While the words were imprecise, Spock understood their meaning: seeing the complete ship and being able to examine its systems from the inside out would’ve been more educating. Yet, Spock found satisfaction in any piece of new knowledge, especially the one concerning something he has been pondering for a long time.

At the moment Spock could see fifty-seven small shuttlecrafts scurrying around the ship, some delivering workers to different levels, others being fully automated to weld, screw, and assemble on their own. All of them were equipped with identical orange warning lights – in the dusk they appeared bright, and the ones flying above the ship illuminated the low clouds in the familiar streaks of orange. The projectors around the ship shot columns of light towards the stars, turning the sky into a pale white blanket.

One of the workers noticed them, laughed, and waved her hand: she didn’t look concerned about their presence as long as they didn’t cross the safety line, most likely because they weren’t the first individuals to be attracted to the construction site.

Spock averted his gaze instantly.

Instead he let it slide towards Jim, and noticed him staring at the simple grey building nearby – which was unusual; after the colourfully emotional descriptions of the Enterprise Jim provided he assumed his interest would be focused solely on the ship.

Perhaps Spock simply didn’t understand something, and the building was secretly a source of knowledge grander than the ship, contrary to its outer bleakness?

The best way was to ask Jim directly.

“Is that building of interest to you?”

“Building?...” Jim snapped out of whatever thoughts he was focusing on. “Uh, no. It’s nothing. Just saw... a dragonfly.”

Spock squinted at the space around the building: devoid of all life.

“So, I fulfilled my promise. We saw the source of the lights,” Jim added, even though his voice sounded less convicted compared to before. Was he intimidated by Spock’s display of what he called ‘awesome fighting’? That would make sense. In the world that valued the ability to destroy life above all his actions could induce only reverence and fear.

Spock couldn’t help but regret showing his strength. He’s had enough of being feared.

Surak taught that violence should be used as a last resort in defending others and even less frequently when defending self. Which begged the question: did Spock overstep the line in the bar? What was right – speaking the violent language of this world or staying true to himself?

“Time to say goodbye?” Jim suggested when Spock replied nothing. His tone was hesitant.

‘Anti-climatic’, Jim named the experience. Spock agreed with him fully; he was denied the practical approach his entire life, and now he realized he tried to justify the denial to himself by saying the theory had everything he needed – in fear of angering Nero and being left alone forever. He denied this explanation to himself too, considering fear unbecoming, especially fear of loneliness: he was taught to be self-sustained.

“You have told me about a spaceport. It must be free for civilians to enter; I wish to see it.”

“The hub to the spaceport is in San Francisco,” Jim said.

Spock, knowing the location of every single city on Earth, calculated the distance between Riverside and San Francisco: 1650 miles.

“We will use public transportation,” he said, and before Jim could reply, continued, “only after that you will be able to return your artefact. You may be highly proficient in breaking into mechanisms, but the vault I have is not only well hidden, but also programmed to respond to my handprint only. Trying to kill me is unproductive, because I will overpower you; drugging me,” he glanced at Jim pointedly to show that he knew what he was doing by inviting him to that bar, “is futile, because I am not susceptible to drugs.”

“I would never try to kill you,” Jim said, affronted, “who the fuck do you think I am?!”

Now Spock was confused. Was murder not the way the problems of this world were solved?…

“Why not? It would be the most effective way to solve the problem if my strength did not surpass yours.”

Jim looked at him wordlessly for a few moments, his expression contorting into something indescribable, and in the end he sighed and closed his eyes.

“Look, the thing I said about us being savages… I exaggerated. Just a little bit. There are a lot more kind people out there than just me and Uhura. In fact, I can guarantee you the amount of people who would try to hurt you is very insignificant.”

“That is not the world my caretaker told me about.”

“Well then, he _lied_ ,” Jim spat out with surprising venom. “Just like he lied about our progress and, I bet, a million other things.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Just like you were lying in the club?”

“Yeah,” Jim crossed his arms, muscles suddenly tense. “Maybe you should reconsider including me in the ‘good part of humanity’ list.”

Agitated, he seemed to make a lot of unnecessary movements. He huffed, rocked on his feet, and hauled his hands in the direction of the shuttle station, looking at Spock with irritation, as if Spock was the one holding them up. “Come on, into the valley of steel we go.”

With an air of a man wanting to finish the conversation as soon as possible, he turned around to walk away briskly.

Spock did not follow his advice.

***

The answer was simple: that spot near the ship held Memories. That’s right, with the capital letter.

One year ago the choice Jim made there has changed his life completely.

He and McCoy have been friends for a while after that bar fight, and eventually both of them agreed Earth could offer them nothing of substance except for drinking and a little bit of smuggling on Jim’s part – just at the time when a new year in Starfleet Academy was beginning, and, as usual, they were searching for bright-eyed recruits to lead them towards the ends of the world.

The Enterprise’s construction has been going on for a while, and it was a perfect spot for a shuttle with the recruits to leave, symbolic of all the wonderful things that awaited them.

That’s where Jim and McCoy agreed to meet with bags packed and ready to relocate in San Francisco.

That’s where a man with unruly mane of white hair has introduced himself as Baran, complemented Jim’s hacking skills he’s heard so much about, and asked if he was interested in one last job, promising loads of credits for a single Vulcan artefact. And Jim, blinded by the promise and thinking it would not take long, said yes, signing himself up for a hunt that lasted for another year.

And perhaps his biggest regret about that day was leaving without giving McCoy an explanation and never seeing him after that.

***

In the San Francisco transportation hub the shuttlecraft from Riverside was immediately swallowed by a swarm of shuttles of all shapes and sizes. The hub was situated in the outskirts of the city in order to avoid interfering with the city’s daily life: upon arrival, the passengers were greeted by a beautiful view of an artificially created river and multitude of kiosks offering further transportation.

In the evening, the platform attracted even more passengers who wanted to enjoy the view of the water reflecting colours of the sky, slowly shifting from blues to deep purples, with a lone star twinkling overhead.

Mindful of the lack of credits in his pockets, Jim bypassed the sign offering an express shuttle to the station from where they blasted into the sky towards the spaceport, and headed to the free tourist tram.

“Six hours have passed,” Spock said suddenly.

Even though he looked at Jim, his eyes constantly flicked to the side, absorbing every single detail happening in the busy hub. Not just the technology; he observed visitors’ behaviours too, no doubt storing everything away for later analysis.

Jim looked down – and found a sandwich being shoved at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Exactly six hours have passed since the moment I saw you. I have studied humans, albeit briefly; you need to consume 625 calories every six hours to obtain maximum health. Now eat,” the sandwich was dropped into Jim’s hand unceremoniously.

“Where did you even get it? I thought you didn’t have money.”

“I extracted it from the vending machine. It was easily breakable,” Spock said, observing groups of tourists taking pictures in front of the giant plaque reading WELCOME TO SAN FRANCISCO: HOME TO STARFLEET.

“That’s stealing,” the words came out muffled because of the sandwich Jim shoved in his mouth. “Stealing is bad, don’t be like me. I really gotta find you a Constitution to read, I bet you’d love all the rules and regulations...”

“Demanding money for sustenance, which is a basic need for any living creature, is illogical. By doing so, they put less value on lives of the beings that do not possess necessary funds to acquire it.”

“And you disagree with that?” Jim licked the crumbs off his fingers. Although the sandwich was full of nothing but vegetables it was still good.

“Every life is valuable and should be protected,” Spock said firmly, gaze following the movements of his tongue. “You need to be hydrated. I shall search for water now.”

With this, he disappeared into the crowd swiftly, and Jim’s answering “Yeah” was said into an empty space.

He wished he could afford to be this idealistic – the last time he believed in ultimate good was when he was seven.

Jim looked at the plaque again – now there were two boys in front of it; an older one in red cadet uniform and a younger one trying on the uniform hat. A woman – a Starfleet officer in gold – was laughing and snapping her holocamera at them, and eventually, it became too much.

Jim wondered where Sam was now, and whether he talked to Winona at all – or did he harbour the same resentment for her abandoning them as Jim did?...

“ _KIRK!!_ ”

Jim froze.

Oh crap.

He could recognize this voice anywhere.

Slowly, he turned around to see Baran: an ageing man with a scowl twisting his features, the heap of white hair glistening in overlights. His wrist was instantly crashed in a vice-like grip.

Jim flinched involuntarily: he still didn’t know Baran’s species, but superiority of his physical strength was obvious from day one. And while he was pretty dull and too impulsive for a leader, this, and the neural paralyser he used on disobedient subordinates on his ship made him a leader very little dared oppose. He could imagine his bones cracking under Baran’s fingers.

“You know, when I first heard you betrayed us I didn’t believe it,” he said lowly. “We had a very profitable mission together. But I see you are heading for the spaceport – want to run away, eh? Where’s the stone?”

Baran’s eyes searched Jim’s pockets – logically, he should’ve realized there was no telltale bulge of a rather large artefact, but Baran has never abided by logic, even more than Jim himself.

“If you want stones, there’s plenty on the pavement.”

Mocking the danger was Jim’s usual reaction, often resulting in even more danger – but once he started he simply couldn’t stop.

“Do you think I’m joking?!”

“Of course not,” Jim fruitlessly tried to dislodge his arm. “I know you never have fun – you didn’t even laugh at my joke about Klingons and Cardassians…”

“Stop fucking with me, Kirk,” Baran growled.

“Fucking, with you?” Jim widened his eyes in mock horror. “No thanks, I’ll pass!”

Baran’s grip on his wrists tightened to a point where Jim hissed in pain; he had a talent for pushing everyone’s buttons.

Jim’s gaze flicked from side to side to calculate the ways of bolting past Baran – fighting him was out of the question, if the mean looking phaser of his belt said anything. Baran was trained in reading body language: his eyes darkened.

“So you do want to steal it. You will pay for this,” with a quiet click, he charged the phaser with his free hand, pushing it to ‘kill’, holding it next to his hip discreetly.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Jim saw Spock approaching, carefully reading a label on a water bottle.

“I have reprogrammed the machine,” he was saying, “to give out bottles of water continuously to anyone who wishes to acquire them – this should counteract the unfair distribu–” Spock stopped, taking in the scene. He didn’t do anything besides flicking an eyebrow up – probably thought it was a customary friendly greeting or whatnot.

“Who are you?” Spock asked.

“Baran,” Baran said, assessing him from head to toe. “Who are _you_?”

“Irrelevant.”

Spock’s gaze shifted to Jim – and Jim tried to use his limited expertise in eyebrow acrobatics to tell him this wasn’t a meeting between two old friends. Spock just stared blankly at him.

“Spock,” Jim hissed, pointedly looking down at his crashed hand, begging him to take a hint, “Knock him out! Do the forbidden neck thing!”

The line of confusion between Spock’s eyebrows cleared; and Jim tensed in preparation for the next move. As Spock’s hand moved towards Baran’s neck, Baran had only two ways of stopping it – releasing the phaser or Jim’s wrist, and thankfully, he chose the latter.

In a second, before anyone else could figure what’s going on, Jim ripped his hand free, spun around Baran in a semi-circle, just enough to grab the ends of Spock’s sash and pull him towards the kiosks, making his hand flop down before reaching Baran’s neck.

“Move!!” Jim yelled, just in time when a phaser blast hit the spot they were on a moment ago. The passengers screamed and scattered.

They passed the Starfleet officer and her sons on their way into a tiny maintenance corridor leading into the main building of the station, and even though Jim barely caught a glimpse of her, he just _knew_ she was about to call for reinforcements.

Honestly, if choosing between the mercenaries and Starfleet, Jim would pick the latter, at least they had the courtesy to set their phasers on stun.

Speaking of phasers.

Another shot barely missed them and hit the metal railing, showering them in sparks: with a sharp tug at Spock’s sash, Jim directed them down a hatch to slip onto the lower maintenance level, under the “Authorized personnel only” sign.

Without pausing to assess the surroundings, Jim led them further and further and further into the maintenance corridors, spurred by Baran’s thundering footsteps behind and faint screams of the passengers calling for security – luckily, he seemed to be alone.

The corridors intertwined into a maze, providing a multitude of hiding places, and when Jim was finally certain only a thorough search could reveal them, he paused for a breath. At times like this he really wished he owned a phaser to have something to offer in battles.

Spock, bless him, followed Jim without a word, and only once they stopped, he asked, “What is the purpose of your actions?”

“The purpose is not getting shot by a guy who likes shooting,” Jim said quietly, peeking from behind a tube. It seemed they reached the sewers, particularly the water treatment part where the water was chemically cleaned from the wastes and discharged into the channel in the city. The tube they were hiding behind buzzed with the force of water being pushed through it. Soft beeping on their right alerted Jim of a maintenance worker typing his clearance code into a control panel, making the water in the tubes slow down before stopping completely. In the sudden silence they could do nothing to hide the noise they made, no matter how quiet, and the worker looked up at the sound – but Jim took the water bottle Spock was surprisingly still holding, and threw it in the opposite direction. The sound of plastic jumping down the metal ladder attracted the worker’s attention, and he left the station, leaving the hatch open.

He disappeared behind a gigantic cylinder container rising up to the ceiling – and that’s when Jim lost interest in him, because Baran’s footsteps sounded again, somewhere on the upper level.

“Kirk, all I want is the stone,” the words echoed in darkened corridors, “give it to me and no one gets hurt. Otherwise both of us would be dead in the hands of the commissioner…”

Jim motioned Spock to stay still – he complied, bless, bless him for understanding – and moved around the tube carefully, analysing ways of escaping and pondering why he couldn’t hear any ruffling of Baran’s clothing –

– and then there was an all too familiar singing of a phaser being fired.

Jim’s instincts were faster than his mind, he dropped on his knees and ducked behind another tube, covering his head – then there was another blast, the one he couldn’t protect himself from anymore – and Jim felt the muscles of his thigh rip apart as white-hot pain shot through his nervous system, and he screamed against his will.

Spock was by his side that instant.

“Are you in pain?”

“Take a wild fucking guess!!” Jim hissed, blinking away tears, fruitlessly pressing at the wound. He leaned on the tube awkwardly to relieve the his left leg; pain was racking his body at the mere thought of moving, and hot blood trickling down his skin made bile rise deep in his throat.

“Judging by the amount of blood loss my educated guess would be in affirmative, however, it is equally possible you went into shock and temporarily lost sensation which will enable you to move-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”

“Fascinating. Is resorting to the use of profanity a common reaction to-”

“Oh my god, be quiet!!” Jim hissed fervently. “You’re gonna give out our location!”

“Your shout has already given it away,” Spock replied and watched him for a moment before seemingly coming to a conclusion. “We will move faster this way.”

This was the only warning Jim got before being effortlessly scooped in Spock’s arms bridal style. For a moment, Jim could only blink at him with an open mouth, pain moving on the background making way for surprise and – let’s be honest – awe.

Jim was definitely blaming the haze of pain and wonder for his next decision, because never in his right mind would he point at the first opened hatch he saw and say, “There, quick!”

In two seconds, ducking from a couple more shots that barely missed them, Spock carried him over towards the opening in the giant cylinder, where a maintenance robot has just exited – and an automated door slammed shut behind them the moment they entered, plunging the area in total darkness.

Spock lowered Jim on the ground immediately, obviously to avoid prolonging physical contact – although Jim was still grateful for what little of it has transpired. In this state walking was out of question, let alone running.

Leaning against a cold wet wall, he fumbled for his communicator to illuminate the area they were in.

It reminded him of a Jefferies tube on a starship, only scaled up to enormous sizes, about twenty meters tall and five meters wide – the blueish lights of the communicator reflected off wet metal: smooth, except for ledges embedded into it for the maintenance workers to climb up.

“What is that sound?” Spock asked suddenly, and Jim frowned, swinging his communicator up in attempt to shine the light at the ceiling. There was absolute silence around.

“What sound?... You must be hearing things.”

Jim’s wasn’t an architect, but he did know a thing or two about the general construction of water treatment facilities from his mother, and a second later, a realization of where exactly they were came in.

Along with cold, sinking dread.

And that’s when Spock’s sound came in: low humming, reverberating through the metal and every molecule of their bodies – the floor parted, revealing a giant propeller pushing the water inside.

“Oh crap – you need to move, up up _UP_!” Jim shouted, ignoring the pain for the best of his abilities.

He lowered himself on one knee near the control panel, knowing there was an emergency protocol – but when he entered the default maintenance code his mother used in her works, the screen’s only reply was ACCESS DENIED, the letters blurring under the water that covered them quickly.

Jim tried to pry the panel open to attempt to hack it – but the water was fast, it was splashing near his nose already…

He couldn’t stifle a gasp when suddenly Spock’s arm fisted his shirt and yanked him onto the first ledge.

“Are you going to explain what is happening?” Spock asked as they moved towards the ceiling quickly to escape the thickened water smelling of chemicals, until their head bumped into the metal.

“Fuck,” he hissed, pressing against the wall to keep his balance. He looked down; the water was rising, steady and sure, like a particularly slow guillotine.

“That is not the answer,” Spock said. It was almost surreal to hear his steady voice in absolute darkness with the water growling in the background.

“You want an answer?” Jim snapped. “Fine. This is the final step of water treatment, they take the waste, throw some chemicals in, mix it all together, and in the end there’s nice and clear water they can dump into the river. Only we won’t be able to enjoy it because we’ll drown in five minutes.”

“In six minutes and forty seconds.”

“Sorry?”

“If the speed of the water will not change, it will cut off your airways in six minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Thirty-seven… Thirty-six...”

“Thanks, I can do without the countdown,” Jim groaned, throwing his head backwards with a thump. “That’s not how I imagined I would die.”

He’s always thought he was destined to die alone – either in a dirty den after a bar fight, or (when he was feeling optimistic) he would imagine dying on a private island on Risa – dying of happiness of finally owning a private island, of course. His mother could cry, and Sam would cry, and everyone would be full of regret, and Beastie Boys would play at his funeral…

“Sorry I got us into this mess,” Jim added with a sigh. The air was growing stuffy. His wound throbbed.

What a great way to introduce Spock to the outside world, only to make him die on his first day, before even experiencing the incredible sensation of being among the stars, before learning that not everyone would try to shoot him the first chance they got.

“You should not apologize for which you are not at fault. It was my actions that resulted in us arriving at San Francisco, not yours,” Spock said. He didn’t sound regretful – just stating a fact.

Jim tried to find comfort in Spock’s calm voice, wondering how he could stay unaffected facing what should be the feared unknown for him. He squinted, trying to see Spock’s face in the pitch-black darkness.

Jim himself wasn’t afraid any more than in any other life-threatening situations he was in, but drowning was one of the most undignified ways to go. Well, at least he was helping someone.

“Regret is illogical,” Spock continued, “however... I do not wish you to lose your life.”

Jim probed the metal wall – there was no way to break it. No way to hack into the lock without suffocating. No way to guess the correct code in time.

Jim couldn’t find anything better to say than “Yeah.”

For a moment the only sounds were the splashing of the water, faint humming of turbines, and their breaths.

This silence was unbearable.

“I suppose this is the moment where we have our dying wishes,” Jim said, putting on his best fake bravado tone mostly out of habit than necessity, “too bad there’s no one to fulfil them. You know, if I had one wish, I’d like to have a portable transporter. I would snap my fingers right now and we would disappear and go somewhere warm, like Florida, or Spain. I’ve never been to Spain.”

Unable to stand the darkness, Jim turned the communicator on again, only to see the water splashing right next to their feet.

Spock’s footing slipped; Jim grabbed his shoulder before he could fall to his untimely (one minute earlier than planned) death – surely the man who lived inside a force field couldn’t know how to swim.

“You have not mentioned portable transporters when talking about this technology. Is it merely your fantasy?” Spock asked, trying to move away from Jim’s hand holding his sleeve.

“You got that right,” Jim refused to let him go, watching the light of the communicator turn his skin even more pale than it was.

The water has reached the knee level. The chemicals made his wound sting.

“You know, I lied,” Jim said. He had no idea why he kept talking – just to avoid the deadly silence or perhaps because he wanted the last person who would see him to know the real Jim Kirk. “I’m not really a Starfleet officer – it’s just a pin. My father’s pin, the only thing I’ve got left of him. I just carry it around – it helps sometimes to get away with things. Somebody might as well know.”

The emotions Jim felt towards George Kirk were complicated – bitterness, respect, longing – and sometimes, when the pin helped him trick his way out of sticky situations, Jim liked to think it was really his father helping him out from beyond the grave.

Spock just continued looking at him with that intense burying stare – well, out of all the ways to die, dying while being looked at like this was… not bad. Like Jim was the last most important puzzle to solve.

Waist level.

“So, what about you? Got any confessions? Hidden secrets? No one will judge now.”

Chest level.

For a moment, Spock seemed to debate whether to respond or not, and finally said quietly, “I am a touch telepath. This is why I do not touch others.”

“Oh?” Jim uttered.

Mentally he rewound Spock’s behaviourisms he witnessed today, and suddenly everything, even his initial attack, made sense.

And now Spock’s confinement seemed even more severe: touch telepaths must’ve needed contact, Jim couldn’t imagine what it was like to have a huge part of yourself unfulfilled. This made the regret even more painful, and the desire to get him out and show him the beauty of seeing the Earth from outer space even more burning – but as Jim flipped through the ways to stop the turbines, he couldn’t see anything that could help them. They were in a trap in its purest sense.

The next moment the water reached Jim’s throat and he gulped, feeling it pressing all around him. He wasn’t standing anymore, his feet were lifted up a bit and his head thumped the ceiling. He could smell his own blood in the water.

“You know what the irony is?” Jim said hoarsely. “There is an emergency protocol that would expel the water prematurely. I saw that technician put the code in, if only I actually _looked_ at what he was typing-”

“You _saw_ the code?!”

Jim’s head whipped sideways in surprise at the intensity of Spock’s tone.

“Yeah, but like I said, I don’t remember it-“

“But you _saw_ it,” Spock pressed, turning his body towards Jim, resolve burning in his eyes. Jim had no idea what he was getting at, but a tiniest glimmer of hope bloomed in his chest.

“Think about the moment you saw the code,” Spock said, outstretching a hand towards wide-eyed Jim, and before he could ask what the hell was going on, five fingers were pressed to his face.

It was like someone has blown a hole in his mind, and its contents were leaking all over the place, uncontrollable, and in the last desperate attempt, not really knowing what he was doing, Jim tried to gather it together, but it was slippingslipping _slipping_ , and his mind was screaming in panic-

 _“Do not fear,”_ a whisper drifted into his mind, _“I will not hurt you.”_

Through the haze of utter confusion Jim was surprised he managed to recognize it as Spock’s voice.

 _“Remember the moment you saw the code,”_ the voice reminded, a firm but gentle presence in his mind that helped him gather scattered thoughts – and there was something else, another presence that was completely different and yet somehow already familiar and _safe_ – but before Jim could latch out onto it, memories of the last six hours barrelled into him, a swirl of events in which he tried to distinguish the one they needed.

At that point Jim has finally gathered enough autonomy over his mind to create coherent thoughts, and he has studied enough xenobiology to know what it was: a mind meld. A _Vulcan_ mind meld.

The razor-sharp memory unfolded on its own accord, and Jim saw the scene with perfect clarity, like a holovid played in slow motion: the technician in the background he didn’t pay much attention to entering a code on the same control panel.

When Jim emerged from the meld, the water was already up to his nose, and he spluttered, inhaling some. Spock’s hand slipped off his face, and he pressed against the wall again, craning his neck to stay above the water – with his height the waterline was just touching his chin.

They couldn’t afford waiting a second longer. Disoriented and buzzed, Jim still knew what he must do. This was a familiar territory: he had a goal, and no injuries or pounding in his head could stop him.

“Don’t inhale the water!” Jim last words were before it rose and enveloped them both; Spock sent him a withering glare – he may not know how to swim, but he wasn’t stupid – and then Jim wrapped the sash around his wrist and tugged in a jerking motion.

Spock went down without an objection, heavy like a bag of stones, and Jim manoeuvred them to the dimly lit control panel, panic rising as he felt the burn in his oxygen-deprived lungs – without pausing for a second he ripped the panel open and punched in the code still branded clear in his mind.

The giant mechanism on the top hummed to life; the pull started slow and disastrously forceful, and then the ceiling burst open, flinging the masses of water out, where the two of them were lost like grains of sand.

They were tossed around by the merciless torrent, and only through some miracle Jim didn’t let go of Spock’s sash and actually managed to grasp some breaths when they were thrown in the river.

And then finally, _finally_ , what felt like years later, the river washed them into a tiny bay where they could feel the pebbles scraping their skin as they lied breathless in shallow water covered by darkness of the night. Then, and only then did Jim let go of the lifeline that was Spock’s sash.

The air in his lungs was a blessing; he was so happy and high on adrenaline he could tackle Spock on the ground, kiss his wet eyelashes, and ruffle his hair, now sticking to his forehead in pointy strands.

They were miraculously, wonderfully _alive_.

Too caught up in excitement, Jim tried to stand up and promptly fell on the ground with a groan. He’s completely forgotten about his injured leg.

Spock, who has been lying still this whole time, rose up immediately, tugged him out of the water by the collar of the jacket, and arranged him in a half-sitting position leaning on a tree – and only much later Jim would appreciate the fact that Spock’s hands didn’t shake despite what was the most straining experience for him so far. Jim attempted to dry his wet clothes and hair, but ultimately failed with both.

It was hard to distinguish in the dark, but they seemed to be in some kind of a park: the street lamps illuminated multitude of trees and a single empty bench nearby. No noise can be heard; it seemed this corner of the park was thankfully forgotten.

Spock bent down to ghost his fingertips over the edges of the wound and ripped the jeans off completely. Jim gasped – either from the pain or once again from the impressiveness of Spock’s inhuman strength.

Spock inspected the wound more carefully and seemed to come to a decision. He untied his sash and wrapped it around Jim’s leg tightly to stop the bleeding, and looked into Jim’s eyes seriously.

“Accessing memories is not the only capability I possess. I can accelerate the healing process. I need your consent.”

Spock raised his hand slowly and paused within an inch of Jim’s face in the same position they had in the tubes. Jim’s eyes flicked between Spock’s face and hand, and he was both eager and wary, an exhilarating combination he usually associated with the most dangerous of stunts.

“What’s gonna happen exactly?” He asked cautiously.

“I will enter your mind and take control of your bodily functions, increase the speed of the blood clotting and stop the bleeding by growing a fresh layer of skin, clean your wound of infections and block the pain. Do I have your consent?”

Jim didn’t point out that for someone so hung up about consent Spock surely dropped in uninvited in the sewers. He resisted only because he realized with the time it would take to discuss they would’ve drowned already.

Those promises sounded awfully good though; and when something was too good to be true there usually was a catch. In this case it was exposing the entirety of his mind to a stranger – but the leg was throbbing with pain, he couldn’t walk, and he was pretty sure the chemicals from the water would leave him with a need of an amputation if he didn’t act right now.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Affirmative,” Spock answered immediately. “I have performed similar actions on my caretaker four hundred and seven times.”

Jim whistled.

“Wow, impressive. Alright, do it.”

He tilted his head into Spock hand – a wrong thing to do, because Spock jerked away as if burned; it seems any kind of unexpected contact was uncomfortable to the man, and now Jim kind of understood why. However, the next moment Spock straightened as if nothing happened, said “my apologies” flatly, and laid a hand back on Jim’s face. At least he didn’t try to choke him this time.

He closed his eyes and prepared for an onslaught of memories – but it never came.

Opening his eyes again, he saw Spock staring at him with intent curiosity.

“I have not gained access to your mind yet; as I have not worked on humans before, I need to learn the workings of your organism first,” Spock explained as if he could read Jim’s mind – oh wait.

Jim couldn’t suppress an inner shiver at the thought of a mind reader rummaging freely in his head, as Spock tensed visibly.

“I will ask you to refrain from projecting your thoughts and emotions.”

“I’ll try,” Jim muttered, attempting to stomp down his negativity. But it was easier said than done – how was he supposed to just stop thinking and feeling? He tried to suppress all the thoughts anyway, especially the dirty ones – not that Jim had any at the moment, but he wouldn’t trust his treacherous mind not to remember a random sex scene at the most inappropriate moment and scar a poor innocent telepath for life, like that one time with- no, no sex! Why was it always like this, when someone said ‘don’t think about a purple elephant’, that’s exactly what you ended up thinking about? It must be the most inconvenient trait of the human mind. At least Spock and Jim weren’t in a life-threatening situation where the outcome would depend on their thoughts, like in that ancient movie, Ghostbusters, where thinking about the marshmallow man was the heroes’ undoing. Spock with his strict controlled mind would probably make a good ghostbuster, he’d definitely look so good in overalls holding a blaster...

“Are you distracting me on purpose?” Spock asked, and Jim instantly imagined his thoughts as some flies he shooed out of a window.

Maybe it was their contact, but he could tell Spock wasn’t angry, only curious and slightly amused.

“I do not understand either the purpose or the sequence of your thoughts. How did the current situation provoke imaginary purple mammals and animated confections? Is it how all human minds function?”

“Nah, just mine.”

Jim wondered if Spock could sense the reason for the bitterness in his words.

Spock simply looked at him.

“I admit to never experiencing a mind that would be so... imaginative. The minds I touched before held only facts they wanted me to see, but yours has... possibilities.”

“Yep, our minds are pretty different,” Jim said simply because he didn’t want to stay silent.

But curiosity was getting to him as well: with every word Spock’s story was getting more mysterious. So he wasn’t living in total isolation, if he had those other minds he could touch? Who taught him the healing techniques? As far as Jim knew, Vulcans weren’t capable of this, and neither were Romulans.

“Indeed,” Spock replied, either not picking up on Jim’s thoughts, or most likely deciding to disregard them, which only made his mystery more intriguing. “Our organisms are different too. Your heart is in an unusual place.”

“Oh? Where’s yours?”

“Here,” Spock pressed a free hand beneath his ribs, and the soaking wet robe, now hanging loosely from his shoulders without the sash, stuck to the skin. Jim wondered if he would be able to feel the beat of Spock’s heart if he put his hand there – and he shook his head mentally. It was worse than sex thoughts. He really should focus on something else, something to create a mental background noise – but the only thing he could think of was the curious subtle trickling sensation spreading from heat of Spock’s fingers against his face throughout his body, like a warm rain on the inside, the way slow breaths came out of Spock’s parted lips – if Jim concentrated, he could sense them ghosting over his skin – and the pulse of gently probing mind that numbed the sharp pain in his leg, reminding him of campfire and roasted marshmallows and dark summer nights...

“I finished the examination and will begin the procedure now,” Spock said softly, and Jim’s eyes slid close without a conscious effort.

It started slow, like Jim’s mind was a computer that was being detached from the server wire after wire, the warmth enveloped him until he was floating somewhere – still in his body, but very far away at the same time, somewhere where no pain and cold existed, no artefacts and phasers and mercenaries, only safety, stars, and Spock’s hand on his face. He didn’t know how much time passed, and his sluggish thoughts wandered to ghostbusters again – perhaps this is what being a ghost felt like…

His body was mush. He really wanted to sleep.

And then a realization crashed into him like a freight train, jerking him out of the ghost-like state of content – fake content! fakefake _fake_ – into the reality where he wasn’t in control of his _own body_ , and where Spock could do anything he wanted while he was in the most vulnerable, helpless state in his entire life, even worse then—

Jim’s eyes flew open, and it took a few disoriented moments to realize Spock’s hand was no longer pressed against his temple, and instead he was kneeling nearby, eyes widened, hands fisting the grass.

Jim collected himself and leaned forward.

“Hey, you okay?”

Spock inhaled deeply and then looked back with a shockingly blank face, all traces of intensity erased.

“My apologies for the abrupt ending of the meld. You projections are rather forceful.”

“Oh?” Jim wasn’t sure, but he felt like he’s just committed a telepathic offence. “What did I project exactly?”

“Your desire for me to leave your mind.”

“Sorry,” Jim winced. Yep, it definitely sounded like an offence. “It just was so weird, not being able to feel my own body-“

“You do not need to seek excuses, your reaction was natural. I experienced your emotional state and the reasoning behind it; you acted in self-defence,” Spock was rising from the ground and pulling at his wet robe that was sticking to his skin and revealing a deceptively scrawny form. Jim busied himself with taking the jacket off and throwing it onto the tree branch in hopes of drying it a bit, and then poked at the wound curiously.

Interesting; he did feel pain, unlike Spock promised, but it was dull, like from a day-old injury.

“Because of the meld’s premature ending I was not able to numb the pain completely,” Spock explained, and Jim smiled.

“Are you reading my mind again?” He asked, meaning it as a joke to lighten the mood, but Spock’s tensed shoulders told him it had the opposite effect.

“It is not possible. I am a _touch_ telepath,” he said, tone clipped.

After the unexpected calmness and acceptance Spock treated him with for the duration of their trip, it was unsettling.

“I know, I was just joking,” Jim raised his hands in a pacifying gesture. “So, are we going to finish the job?”

He pointed at his head, thinking maybe it would please Spock to be able to use his ability again, but Spock tensed even more.

“It would be unwise. I have cleared the infection in your blood, and you are sufficiently healed to await a medical professional’s arrival without any complications.”

“We are gonna need some new clothes,” Jim muttered, inspecting the jeans on his left leg that were turned into shorts thanks to Spock’s ministrations. He lifted the sash to peek at the wound – amazingly, it wasn’t bleeding anymore, and the raw flesh was covered with the thinnest layer of new skin.

“Well, if we go to a hospital they’ll heal me, sure, but after that they’ll ask how I got the wound and throw both of us in jail,” Jim said, “so that’s out of a question.”

“Perhaps...” There was an unusually long hesitant pause, and Jim glanced up to see Spock staring determinedly at the grass. “Perhaps we could visit a Starfleet hospital.”

Jim’s eyebrows flew up. “What did I tell you about my relationship with Starfleet?”

“Actually, you have refused to tell me anything beyond basic facts,” Spock rebutted quickly, but glanced back at the grass again. “Doctor Leonard McCoy works in San Francisco Starfleet hospital. As your close associate, I believe he will be willing to assist without resorting to questioning.”

Jim dropped the ends of the sash he was playing with.

“How do you know this?” A realization dawned on him. “You... saw this in my mind, didn’t you?”

“I apologize for my transgression,” Spock said quickly, “I have never attempted a meld without prior knowledge of the information I need to find, and when I looked for the memory of the code some accidental transference of the thoughts that were recently at the forefront of your mind occurred because my mental shields were lowered due to a life-threatening situation.”

If Jim’s leg wouldn’t hurt like thousands levels of hell if he tries to stand, he would have paced the lawn. Instead he huffed and plopped on his back, throwing his arms around, and stared at the sky that was tinted purple by the invisible sun.

“ _Some?_ What else did you see?”

He didn’t know why he was asking this. Maybe he was a masochist. Turns out, his previous worries were fruitless; if there was anything that could scar Spock’s mind for life, he’s already seen it.

“The T in your name stands for Tiberius. You are allergic to oranges. You have lost both your parents and a brother. Doctor McCoy is your closest associate, yet you have not spoken with him for a long time. You like jelly beans _._ You wish to leave this planet as soon as possible. Also, today is the anniversary of your birth and it saddens you.”

Jim just huffed and stared at the sky intently. So they’ve passed midnight already… When he was little, Sam and he would often lie like this, pointing out stars and constellations they knew, and making up names for those they didn’t.

“You also think I am a Vulcan,” Spock continued. “Explain your logic.”

Jim pushed himself up to lean on his elbows; he was glad to focus on something that wasn’t his own shit.

“Well, that’s obvious. Two words: mind meld. The only species capable of melds are Vulcans, and touch telepathy is their trademark as well… How did you end up thinking you’re a Romulan anyway?”

Spock stared at his hands folded on his lap neatly.

“My caretaker told me the mind meld technique is unique to Romulans – to me. I did not have a reason to doubt him.”

“Oh, right, the same guy who lied to you about existence of interplanetary space travel,” Jim said bitterly. He really hated this unknown man right now.

“He wished to protect me,” Spock said, but his words didn’t bear the same confidence as before. “I was led to believe my telepathy was unique, and I knew it was more potent than that of any of my teachers; it must be protected from those who would seek to abuse it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about telepathy levels,” Jim said, adding internally, _or protective parental figures._ Perhaps this was what explained Spock’s unique ability of healing through touch. “But if you ask me, this was still an asshole move. Why lie about who you are?”

“I do not know. Perhaps being a Vulcan is more dangerous in this world than being a Romulan.”

There was no inflection in Spock’s words, but Jim _felt_ the question hidden there.

“I wouldn’t say so – no one really likes Romulans, they’re not even in the Federation... Of course, there’re some rogue ones who joined us, but their Empire as a whole wants to be independent. And while Vulcans are not exactly the most well-loved species, they are at least treated with respect – they are one of the Federation’s founders and used to make huge contributions to its development, before they had to relocate and build the colony from the ground up.”

Spock shifted, and lowered his hands on the ground, splaying the fingers over the grass, and Jim watched the soft grass blades falling over Spock’s knuckles, complementing the green tint of his skin. Unhealthily pale skin, never touched by sunlight before.

He was silent for a long time, and Jim allowed him this silence; god knows he needed to gather his thoughts now.

Finally, he asked, “What does it mean, to be a Vulcan?”

For the first time, Spock sounded lost.

Jim was _this_ close to suggest visiting a therapist – he was the last person who could help someone go through an identity crisis. But it was the least he could do after Spock saved his life.

“Well, I’m not an expert, but you pretty much already are one. They follow logic and teachings of Surak, like you,” Jim thought about mentioning Vulcans’ absolute defiance of emotion, but he thought this might cause Spock to stop showing what little specks of reactions he allowed, so he selfishly kept quiet. “And Vulcan language is actually pretty close to Romulan – not that I can speak either of them – so you’re going to have no problem with that. You do know Romulan, don’t you?”

“Indeed. I was informed Romulan is a language originating in a different region on Earth, which I now realize was my caretaker’s attempt to hide the existence of planet Romulus.”

Okay, if Jim ever saw this guy he was definitely going to punch him. To think that he knew of Spock’s mind and desire for knowledge and covered up the existence of the most wonderful source of unexplainable things, strange new worlds, and things defying laws of physics – space – it was unforgivable. Even more unforgivable than denying Spock the right to know his heritage.

Spock’s caretaker was certainly cunning; if Spock read so many works about biology, physics, and other branches of science and yet never discovered the existence of extraterrestrial life, he made a conscious effort to choose only the works that didn’t mention anything but Earth, and could find logical explanations about different sentient species coexisting on it. That guy was dangerous; and it wasn’t just Jim’s intuition talking this time, those were pure facts.

“So who is your caretaker?” Jim asked carefully. “What’s his name, what does he do?”

Spock’s eyes flashed dangerously in the low light.

“I will not tell.”

“Why not?”

“He entrusted me with protecting him from the dangers of the Earth, and I will not compromise his trust.”

“He lied to you about everything!” Jim exclaimed, jerking upwards despite the pain shooting through his leg. “This erases the need to follow whatever instructions he gave you!”

“He lied to protect me, and I shall do the same,” Spock replied, in a way that told Jim he would get nothing out of banging his head against his unbending wall of loyalty. This kind of loyalty was admirable really; if only it could be directed more constructively… God, Jim really hated that man, and the fact that Spock _didn’t_ made it all the more infuriating.

Jim knew quite a lot of people who pretended to be good parents and knew how they could behave: his mother’s second husband, for example – who _had_ to pretend, otherwise Winona wouldn’t have let him inside her house – or McCoy’s ex-wife Jocelyn who did everything within her power to stop McCoy from seeing their daughter. Manipulation, especially through fear born out of lies, was their favourite tool.

Understanding that he couldn’t squeeze any more information out of Spock, he changed topics.

“So, you never knew Vulcan existed. You never suspected anything?”

“There were moments of hesitation when I was young,” Spock said. “However, since I never knew who I was, I entrusted my teachers and caretaker to explain what I must become. When I went into a deep meditation I have always sensed... that something was missing, but I never knew what it was. Now I realize those were other minds I was supposed to be connected to before their demise.”

Jim shifted closer to Spock and winced when the pain in his leg bloomed anew. He wished he could offer some physical comfort, like a pat on the back; but he had to settle on trying to project it bodily.

“That makes sense. If you are a touch telepath biologically, you must have certain telepathic needs, like melding.”

“Perhaps,” Spock’s voice was quiet. “I have never performed a full mind meld.”

“What about-” Jim pointed at his temple, but Spock interrupted.

“It was not a full one. A true mind meld is not used for the purposes of gaining information or healing.”

“What then?”

“It is an equal joining of two minds.”

Spock said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world (the only thing that would complete it would be “duh” and an eye-roll), although Jim still didn’t understand. And surprising even himself, instead of apprehension towards the idea there was a spark of curiosity – after all, discovering and experiencing strange new phenomena was his hobby. If the full meld wasn’t used to scramble and control another’s mind, perhaps it wouldn’t be scary? He has never met any Vulcans closely, and he couldn’t deny his curiosity when one was offering information so freely.

They spent a little more time in silence, and it was Spock who broke it again.

“Tell me about Doctor McCoy.”

Jim sat up straight and saw Spock looking at him with dark eyes, even darker under the faint light of the lamp, the look that buried itself straight into Jim’s soul – Jim averted his gaze. It must be the residual effects of the meld.

“Bones is a great doctor,” Jim said, “very talented, even though his bedside manner leaves much to be desired. He’s just finished his first year in the Academy, they have a summer break right now, and he went to work for the Starfleet hospital, didn’t want to waste his degree.”

“Bones?” Spock echoed. “Is it the short form of the name Leonard?”

Jim breathed out a laugh. “No, it’s just a nickname I gave him because of the first over-dramatic line he said to me.”

“I am pleased to hear this explanation,” Spock inclined his head. “Otherwise I would have to conclude that humanity’s naming customs are completely illogical.”

“We wouldn’t want that, would we,” Jim smiled.

“Doctor McCoy is a Starfleet cadet,” Spock continued, and Jim nodded. “And you are not. Is this why you ceased communication?”

Spock was really perceptive for a man who’s spent his entire life in isolation. It’s moments like this when Jim wondered what Spock could be like if his intellect was allowed to blossom fully.

“Kind of. We met a long time ago when he had to patch my face up in a local hospital, and eventually when life hit a low point for both of us, Bones decided to enrol in Starfleet, because there was no place on Earth for him anymore, and I… Well, I already was a repeat offender, and my chances to get in were slim, but a day before we agreed to meet up to board a shuttle to San Francisco a mercenary leader approached me and offered to work for them. And that’s how I got where I am now.”

He risked a glance at Spock’s face, and was surprised to find that the depth of dark brown eyes hasn’t ceased.

“You regret this,” Spock said.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Jim looked at the sky again, watching even more stars appear on it. “I broke into Academy records to look up Bones’s file – just to make sure he’s alright, considered contacting him, but, y’know – and he finished the first year with top marks in Medicine. He’s over there saving lives,” he waved a hand in a vague direction of the city, “and what do I do? Get shot in the leg and almost drown in the sewers. What a life.”

“As I said before, regrets are illogical,” Spock said seriously. “You cannot change the past, but you can alter your future. What are the criteria of acceptance in Starfleet?”

“You have to pass the initial test, prove you’re smart, stubborn, and disciplined enough to handle deep space missions. Then they teach you the rest.”

“In the amount of time we spent together you have demonstrated intelligence, as well as capacity to be disciplined when you wish to be, with not a small amount of stubbornness,” Spock’s voice rang heavily in the silence of the meadow. “You could enrol in Starfleet now if that is what you desire.”

“Yeah, right. Enrol and hope they’ll just _ignore_ the fact that I stole a precious Vulcan artefact.”

“Perhaps if you return it...”

Jim just waved a hand at him in objection. To be honest, he didn’t think Starfleet would deem him acceptable even if he returned everything he’s ever stolen and wrote a thesis on the importance of abiding law – he’s already lost their trust. But Spock’s earnest words hit him hard, almost making him believe he really was someone worthwhile, someone worth redemption.

“I can’t just drop the deal we had with Baran, there will be consequences. Next time he won’t miss and will blow my head up – and believe it or not, I have no desire to spend my life in hiding.”

“What were the conditions of the deal you had?”

“Easy,” Jim shrugged, “I get him the artefact from the exhibition it was in, get paid, and leave this planet at warp speed.”

“Why did he want that artefact?” Spock asked. That was the question Jim sometimes asked himself as well, but as he was merely a hired man, not even an official member of Baran’s crew, he couldn’t hope for a straight answer.

“He didn’t want it for himself, there’s a buyer who hired Baran, and Baran later hired me,” Jim paused and voiced the concern that was eating him at the back of his mind this entire time. “I have no idea how he managed to find me though...”

“Perhaps the same way Starfleet found you in the club? Someone must have informed him of your whereabouts,” Spock suggested.

“The bartender,” Jim snapped his fingers, “she looked shifty.”

Spock nodded. “Her projections were… interesting.”

Jim perked up: right, she touched Spock’s hand!

“What was she feeling?”

“Worry,” Spock paused, “but mostly excitement. Triumph.”

“So like an adrenaline rush,” Jim finished.

“I am unfamiliar with such a sensation,” Spock said.

“Not even when we were thrown into the river?”

“While in the river my focus was on receiving a continuous supply of oxygen while also not losing the sight of you… As well as on my antipathy towards water,” he added thoughtfully.

Jim snorted softly, remembering that even the kitchen sink in Spock’s house was sonic.

“You did want to learn how the outside world operates.”

“Indeed. Although I was expecting a less lethal lesson,” Spock replied, and Jim smiled wider.

“Well, there are perks to this – at least now Baran must think we’re dead. That’s my chance for a free breath.”

Spock regarded him with apt attention after this.

“In the sewers, you said this was not the way you imagined you die. It implies that you envisioned your own death.”

“I did,” Jim shrugged. “I suppose everyone does. It’s a human thing to do.”

Sometimes he wondered if surviving as a newborn was not escaping death, but simply putting off the inevitable, and if death was breathing down his neck every moment waiting to catch him off-guard. He certainly learnt to expect the worst to come – it wouldn’t surprise him.

The only times Jim was truly thriving was during self-induced life-threatening adrenaline rushes, when his instincts were roaring to life, convincing his body it _had_ to live.

“Everyone asks questions,” Jim continued, “like, will my life amount to something? What’s the meaning of life? What brought me to be here at this very moment – fate, destiny?–”

“Your own choices?” Spock finished. “That is an obvious answer. Is it not what humans believe in?”

“Sometimes it’s tough to admit you’re the only one responsible for your state of being. Humans like to avoid responsibilities – well, not only humans. Many other species too.”

“You are afraid of dying alone,” Spock said unexpectedly.

“Afraid is a strong word,” but Jim knew if Spock used it he must’ve seen it in his mind. “But yeah, something like that. I’ve always expected death to be this way: with no one there to hold my hand.”

“Is holding your hand a requirement for abolishing loneliness?”

“Just a symbol. But in any case, it’s not like it’s gonna happen. It’s more merciful to die alone anyway,” he thought of his mother who was present for her husband’s death, and how it shattered her forever, never allowing him to know the happy, life-of-the-party woman she used to be according to her friends.

“For a man who claims to be alone you care about other people much more than about yourself,” Spock mused.

The memory was painful, and Jim thought, to hell with it, he wanted to pace, to do anything to escape those piercing eyes and earnest curiosity, so he moved to get up, only to hiss in pain and collapse when his leg refused to move.

“Please do not move,” Spock said immediately. “I estimate you need to rest 154 minutes to allow your leg to resume partial functionality.”

“So, that’s the plan?” Jim asked in hopes of distracting Spock from his questioning, although he wasn’t sure his attempts would get past Spock’s watchful eye. “We wait for two and a half hours and walk to the hospital?”

“154 minutes,” Spock corrected. “I assume you know the way?”

“Sure. We’ll just have to be careful not to attract too much attention,” he pointed at his torn bloodied jeans and Spock’s dirty wet robe.

“The darkness will be our cover,” Spock said, and didn’t mention the aborted conversation again: he was a lot more insightful than one would think he was.

Instead, the dialogue turned mild, and they spent some time discussing transporter technology with throwing in suggestions as to how a portable transporter could be made, and Jim retold the funniest malfunction accidents he could remember from his mother’s stories.

Eventually, it was naturally lulled into silence, and Jim allowed himself to relax in the warm evening, feeling surprisingly light.

There were two things to really bring people together: common interests and dying by each other’s side.

He could only hope Spock was interested in him not only because Jim was the first person he met in the outside world. Something made him believe the interest was genuine though.

_Something._

Jim had this feeling a lot since he met Spock; like he had a third eye opening when it was concerning the man. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, akin to inflicting characteristics of an imaginary friend on a person he’s just met.

He closed his eyes and wiggled to find a spot where the grass wouldn’t tickle his face.

The park was so peaceful and quiet, a tiny island in the midst of a buzzing civilization; and Jim’s transition from the rare tranquillity to a dreamless nap was seamless.

***

Jim woke up with a start, lost as to why he was lying in pitch black darkness on a patch of wet cold grass.

“Jim,” a voice said, and everything came in at once: the phaser, the sewers, the meld – _Spock_.

Jim turned his body over slowly in the direction of the voice, and with a rush of relief found that the leg wasn’t hurting that much anymore. He fumbled in the pouch to find the communicator and turned the flashlight on, illuminating the man sitting in a relaxed pose next to him.

Spock’s silhouette, draped in dark fabric of the robe, was downright ethereal against the rich blue sky coloured by orange undertones from the city, and the cold light made his features sharper and sleepless eyes darker, and the first thought crossing Jim’s lethargic mind how downright gorgeous he was.

“Hey,” he finally said, staring at the highlights in sleek black hair, voice hoarse from sleep. “What time it is?”

“03:08,” came Spock’s immediate reply. “You have been asleep for 163.6 minutes. Your wound should be sufficiently healed and allow you to move without causing irreversible damage to the tissue.”

Jim rubbed a hand over his eyes; despite the nap, he didn’t feel rested, and his head was full of rust. “You should’ve woken me up.”

“I am not familiar with human sleeping habits, I hypothesized you needed rest to heal adequately and you would wake up once you were ready. Do not worry, I kept guard throughout this time. I have even turned the nearby lamps off to conceal us better.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Jim mumbled, and the scary thing was the truthfulness of these words.

He felt safe with Spock, enough to subconsciously trust him to watch him sleep; and he remembered the initial sense of security in the beginning of the second meld, a strange sense of satisfaction, like sinking into a hot tub on a winter day when the temperature is _just right_ , or when you find a perfect proportion of coffee and cream.... Perhaps that’s what it was supposed to be like; if he didn’t freak out the entire meld could have been spent in calm detachment, and maybe Spock would let him see his mind.

He couldn’t deny it; he _wanted_ to know what was going on in Spock’s head.

Jim got up, testing the injured leg, and was pleased to discover the jolts of pain every move sent wouldn’t prevent him from walking.

Spock was already on his feet, smoothing the wide sleeves of his robe down to cover his fingertips – and suddenly Jim remembered their initial meeting, the Oven Land of Spock’s house, and their temperature differences: if Jim felt slightly chilly, it must feel downright freezing for Spock, especially in the still wet robe clinging to his skin.

Jim limped towards the tree branch where his jacket was still hanging, now dry, and threw it at Spock (although he really wanted to do a supportive act of draping it over Spock himself, he couldn’t risk another bruise on his neck).

“Here, put this on,” Jim said.

“I assure you, I am adequate. I can regulate my body temperature,” was Spock’s reply, and while he didn’t give any outward indication, Jim could just sense his discomfort.

“Still, put it on. Either one of us wears it – and I don’t want to – or we’ll have to carry it in our arms, which will only slow us down. See, it’s a logical decision.”

“You take on logic is rather curious,” Spock said, but shrugged the jacket on anyway.

When they passed the centre of the park with a minimalistic monument made of light silvery metal, Jim finally recognized the place they were washed up to: the Kelvin memorial park.

“Fucking symbolism,” he muttered under his breath.

Their journey to the hospital was slow and unsteady (or rather, both of these adjectives were used to describe Jim), and Jim’s memory of San Francisco was a little fuzzy; and when they finally reached the glass doors it was in the deepest hour of the night and the waiting area was relatively deserted save for a couple of visitors dozing off on comfy benches.

As per their agreement, Spock went to the receptionist alone to summon Dr. McCoy, while Jim waited in the dim waiting area where he wouldn’t be spotted – in case his mugshot was distributed among all Starfleet officers, including the medics.

Jim slumped on a bench, hissing from the renewed pain in the leg and wrapped the sash around tighter, trying to eavesdrop on Spock’s conversation, but hearing nothing but soft murmurs.

Several minutes passed – and then there were hurried footsteps, rustling of medical uniform, hazel eyes blown wide, and a loud urgent whisper, “JIM?!”

“Hey Bones,” Jim smiled weakly. “Long time no see.”

He could tell by the look on his face McCoy had some colourful words to say, but the moment he saw dried blood, bruised throat, and torn clothes, he dropped the hand pulling at his hair and immediately shifted into the full doctor mode.

“What the hell happened to you?!” McCoy’s eyebrows went down in a familiar frown, as he waved his ever-present medical tricorder over Jim.

“I was shot – keep your voice down, please!” Jim waved a hand at him when McCoy’s expressive eyebrows flew up and mouth fell open in what was certainly going to be the beginning of another _‘Dammit, Jim.’_

“Okay,” McCoy clicked the tricorder shut. “Okay. Get both of your asses in the emergency room, but _don’t_ ,” he stuck a finger under Jim’s nose to emphasize, “think you’re getting away from telling what’s going on.”

Jim slapped the hand away, and followed his friend to the turbolift, carefully positioning himself between Spock and McCoy, just in case McCoy decided to feel Spock for bruises.

McCoy slammed the keypad to summon the lift as if it has personally offended him, and threw a glance at Spock over his shoulder when the doors whooshed open and bright bluish light flooded the area.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Spock,” Spock said with no inflection whatsoever.

“How enlightening,” McCoy mumbled after directing the lift to his office. “Who is he, Jimbo?”

Jim hummed in response, too distracted by the artificial light illuminating Spock’s form. For the first time that night he saw Spock in full light and now could admire every detail: his faux leather jacket really suited him and created a curious mix of styles combined with the traditional robe.

“All in good time, Bones, patience is a virtue,” Jim said finally under the accusing stare of his friend.

“If only you listened to your own damn advice,” he replied, and the turbolift chimed when it arrived on the fifth floor.

The sign on the door said _Leonard H. McCoy, MD_ , and the office itself was small and light, with a great view of night San Francisco.

“What is this?” Spock asked, taking a tricorder from the shelf.

“A medical tricorder, used to scan the body and display its properties. I’m pretty sure Bones has a manual lying around here somewhere,” Jim interjected before McCoy could say anything, while shooting his friend a look that hopefully would tell him to leave the matter alone, at least for now.

Thankfully, McCoy was well-versed in Jim’s eye language, and a good doctor, so he glared at them a bit and turned to his computer.

“Nice office,” Jim said, looking around the room.

“Save your pleasantries,” McCoy grumbled and pointed at Spock. “You, wait here. I’m gonna take Jim to a private room.”

“You cannot give me orders,” Spock said snobbishly. If he was human, it would be accompanied with a sniff and a raised chin.

“Yes I can,” McCoy replied instantly, “this is my hospital, I’m judge, jury, and executioner here.”

“You have a degree in medicine, not in law.”

McCoy huffed and moved past him, raising a hand to push him away, but Jim was quick on his feet and caught it.

“Nope,” he said simply and smiled to resolve the tension.

McCoy mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “hobgoblin”, and pushed Jim through the curtain into a private area, while Spock raised an eyebrow that said his Vulcan ears heard everything perfectly well.

“He doesn’t like physical contact, you know, him being a touch telepath and all,” he said in lieu of explanation once they were alone. “Although I made the same mistake in the beginning,” he pointed at the bruise on his throat. “To be fair, I didn’t know he was a Vulcan at the moment, otherwise I wouldn’t have touched him.”

“How could you possibly not know he’s a Vulcan? Did you _look_ at him?”

 _Oh Bones, don’t you worry, I_ did _look,_ Jim’s inner voice supplied.

“He told me he’s a Romulan.”

“If I said I was a porcupine would you believe me too?” McCoy said while adjusting the full-body scanner and shook his head to show no reply was needed. “Alright, spill the beans, kid.”

“Well…” Jim began, unsure what he could and couldn’t say – he didn’t want to get McCoy in any trouble in case he will be considered guilty of withholding evidence. In the end, he settled on a vague description of the events. “Let’s just say Starfleet’s out to get me because I may have broken the law a little bit, and while running away from them we’ve encountered a guy who thought it would be fun to shoot at us, then we almost drowned, froze our asses off, and got here when I could walk again.”

“Your core temperature is 1.2 degrees lower than normal,” McCoy clicked his tongue, frowning at the displays. He walked to the replicator and produced a steaming mug of hot chocolate that Jim accepted gratefully. “So where does that Vulcan fit in? And how on Earth did a _phaser injury_ heal so quickly?”

“I met Spock by accident, and we were travelling to the hub – he was the one who helped me out with the injury. You know the mind melds Vulcans do? Apparently, through them they can accelerate healing processes.”

“Can they?...” McCoy hummed, visibly uncomfortable, and pointed a dermal regenerator at Jim’s leg, that started stitching itself back together. Jim knew he never trusted telepaths, empaths, or any species that had an ability to influence minds.

Jim wasn’t completely sure, but keeping quiet about Spock’s situation seemed like a right call at the moment, and he decided to rely on his intuition.

“I’m going to ask you to keep all of this a secret though,” Jim said, and seeing the livid expression of his friend’s face, added, “please.”

“So you think you can just show up here with a phaser wound and a mysterious Vulcan who doesn’t know what a tricorder is, and expect me to be quiet?”

“Yes, I know you can do it, you’re my best friend, Bones,” Jim stifled a huge yawn and used the mug-free hand to pat McCoy’s shoulder, which only earned him another disdainful eyebrow dance. He and Spock could probably open up a club where they would teach the best eyebrow moves.

“Oh, sure, _now_ I’m your best friend. A year without a word from you after you left me on the Academy’s doorsteps and now we’re fine and dandy and can go skip into the sunset with chamomile flower crowns?”

Jim winced internally, and then externally after McCoy jabbed his neck with a hypo in his usual overly dramatic fashion.

“Sorry about that, Bones, it was an asshole move.”

“Damn straight it was,” McCoy replied, kicking the edge of a biobed to move it in a better location.

“It wasn’t as bad as you think, I was living on my own this year,” Jim said quietly, slapping a hand over his mouth to hide another yawn.

“Good to know,” McCoy said, a lot calmer this time. “Kid, you should sleep, you’re exhausted.”

Jim complied readily: right now the sterile white sheets of the hospital seemed like heaven.

“Yeah, a phaser shot does this to you, didn’t they teach you this in medical school?”

“Har-dee-har-har,” McCoy shook a finger at him. “Don’t think you’re getting away with this, you’re gonna tell me everything.”

“I thought you were a doctor, not a psychologist?” Jim couldn’t resist reciting McCoy’s favourite catchphrase.

“Actually, once I am assigned to a starship, my duties will include giving psychological consultations to the crew. I dread that moment.”

Reminded about the thing he could’ve had, Jim felt a sting of envy and regret.

When they exited the private room, they were greeted by the sight of Spock surrounded by a multitude of padds and several tricorders, all of them disassembled.

“The fuck’s your _problem_ , man—” McCoy began, but Jim interjected.

“I see you’ve figured out the tricorder already,” he smiled, and Spock inclined his head.

“Indeed, its design is simple,” he glanced at McCoy sideways, raising an eyebrow at his reddening face. “Cease your emotionalism, doctor, I will assemble the tricorders to be in the same condition as they were.”

“You want some hot chocolate?” Jim offered him the mug.

“I must decline,” Spock said politely, and Jim shrugged, taking another large gulp.

“Alright, it’s four in the morning and both of you need to go to sleep,” McCoy clasped his hands. “I have two empty biobeds in here, nobody will know you’re here save for me and Christine – Christine Chapel is the best nurse in the Academy, the chances of her blabbering are next to zero.”

“I find that I do not trust your odds, Doctor,” Spock said, “seeing how you gave the most imprecise statement of time. It is, in fact, 04:15:10 at the moment.”

McCoy looked like he wanted nothing more but to strangle him.

“Furthermore, I thank you for your offer, yet I must decline once again. I do not require rest at the moment, and I would rather spend my time in pursuit of knowledge.”

“You sure?” Jim worried his lip. Spock indeed looked fresh and wide-awake. “You’ve been up all night.”

“I am quite certain. All I require is a meditation.”

“Vulcans’ weird physiology, Jimmy-boy. They can sleep for an hour and be okay.”

“Indeed, our organisms seem to function much more effectively than humans’,” Jim smiled at McCoy’s irritation with Spock’s every word, and Spock’s subtle enjoyment of getting a rise out of him. Spock made a tiny pause. “Jimmy-boy?”

Jim nearly groaned in embarrassment. To hear that lame nickname out of Spock’s mouth…

“You seem to be using the human tradition of modifying names of their acquaintances,” Spock nodded to himself. “I shall call you Leon.”

“No, you shall not!”

Jim laughed both at McCoy’s expression and Spock’s enjoyment of messing with him. He knew it was intentional misunderstanding – it’s like he became more attuned to Spock’s subtle undertones. Perhaps that was the result of a forcefully soul-baring conversation – Jim wouldn’t know, he’s never had one of those before. With Bones, the mutual understanding of their shitty situations was done in silence accompanied by hard liquor.

Jim left Spock in the office and changed into clean hospital-issued pyjamas McCoy replicated for him that felt gloriously against his newly healed skin, and the moment his head touched the pristine white pillow he was dead to the world for the second time that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCoy is the best thing about this fic.


	3. Chapter 3

The second awakening was a lot more pleasant because of the lack of pebbles and grass pressing against his cheeks, and moist swampy air of the river was substituted with clinical scents of the hospital room.

Someone was rustling nearby, and Jim cracked one eye open to see a woman in medical garbs with her back to him. Pale sunlight danced on her blonde hair in specks of gold – it was a beautiful morning. Jim stretched, noting pleasant lack of pain in his rested muscles and smiled to himself. Just a few minutes, and today was already shaping up to be a good day.

The injury faded into the background of his thoughts easily, just like a hundred other injuries did before. A night of good sleep has filtered the clutter of the previous day’s events, and now all that’s left was excitement about things to come: like chatting with McCoy and fulfilling Spock’s dreams. Jim had very little to his name, and this was the very least he could give him.

He couldn’t _wait_ to see Spock again.

It would be stupid to deny that even in such a short amount of time he grew to like Spock – not as a pretty thing to look at, or a puzzle to solve, but as a person. And with everything he told Jim in the lamp-lit darkness of the Memorial Park there was a hint of a chance he might like him too. Even if Vulcans were incapable of liking anyone. But he might not even be a Vulcan. As far as he knew, Romulans were pretty okay with emotional attachment (if they weren’t planet-destroying father-killing war criminals who simply didn’t _have_ a heart).

 _Sorry, Mom,_ he thought without any real regret, _it seems your way of living isn’t working out for me._

“Good morning,” he cheerfully addressed the woman who has just finished rearranging the medical kits in the shelf, “you must be Christine.”

She turned – her curls arranged into an elaborate hairdo bounced slightly – and smiled politely.

“Mr. Kirk, good morning,” she pointed towards the door on her left. “You may use the facilities; Leonard will be in his ready room.”

Jim wondered briefly where Spock was, and after a quick shower followed a trail of coffee scent to McCoy’s ready room. The clock on his desk read 11:17, and next to it laid Jim’s jacket and the Starfleet pin.

Jim flipped it over and saw tiny letters branded into the metal: GEORGE KIRK, COMMANDER. They were a rarity nowadays, those pins – they were in production for a year or so; sometime after Kelvin incident Starfleet has decided making personal pins was a waste of resources, and returned to mass-production. A pin with George’s name on it would make multiple museums gnaw at each other’s throats. But it was Jim’s only palpable memory of his father, a spare pin that somehow ended up in Winona’s evacuation shuttle, and he wasn’t about to let go of it.

Jim rolled his fist, frowning at the pin that stirred some unnamed gloom inside; the pin’s only reply was the glimmer of metal in cold light, as it always was.

He stuffed it inside the jacket’s pocket and looked around in search for the t-shirt and jeans.

“I dumped it into a recycling chute.”

Jim span around to see McCoy standing in the doorway rubbing a hand over his face; the other hand was holding a huge mug of coffee. Unshaved, with dark circles under his eyes, and hair sticking in every direction, he looked exhausted.

“The only way to save your clothes was to take them to a good dry cleaning,” he continued, “and _don’t_ expect me to do it, I’m a doctor, not your damn butler.”

“Do you ever sleep?” Jim asked.

“I do when there’re no patients keeping me up,” McCoy muttered over the edge of the mug, but Jim knew that most of the doctor’s grumpiness was pretence, especially when it came to patients; after all, when he was working in the hospital in Iowa, he spent more time sleeping in his office than his apartment. Although that was also caused by negative ex-wife-related associations he had with the place.

“Where is Spock?”

McCoy shrugged. “Must be in the office. That’s where I found him the last three times I looked for him, he’s glued to the computer, must have found his long-lost twin brother,” McCoy chuckled. Jim knew McCoy’s arsenal of Vulcan stereotypes and usually laughed along, but now he could barely produce a forced snort.

McCoy gazed at him with seriousness he usually associated with the bad news and moved to sort out some stray hypos lying on the desk.

“There’s something seriously wrong with your guy. I checked him with a tricorder – just in case he’s hiding any phaser wounds – and I set the parameters to Vulcan normal. His readings were all over the place.”

Jim straightened with a sharp sting of worry.

“You think he’s sick?” The images of what being locked forever in one place could result in bloomed in his mind. “...Malnourished? Dehydrated?”

“No, he seemed perfectly healthy if I examine him with my eyes, which I trust more than the equipment, mind you. But if I turn the tricorder on...” He shook his head. “For sickness there’s usually a pattern of deviation. His readings are… simply different.”

Jim nodded, connecting the dots quickly.

“You are saying he’s not Vulcan. Who is he then, a Romulan?”

“I’ve tried setting it to Romulan normal, and then a bunch of other subspecies, simply because I wanted to get to the bottom of this – I mean, he could’ve altered his appearance like all those Vulcan fetishists, but no. He doesn’t fit anywhere. I wanted to take a sample of his blood, but I swear to god, he tried to stab me with a hypo. Must’ve thought it was a weapon.”

“Finally you get the taste of your own medicine,” Jim smirked.

“Doctor jokes, how original,” McCoy grumbled, shaking a hypo in Jim’s direction menacingly, and Jim laughed, holding up a padd like a shield. To be honest, he missed even this game they played, where McCoy seemed to earn points for each hypo he stuck in Jim (bonus points to doing this when he was unaware), and suddenly he felt like the world’s shittiest person for abandoning his friend like this.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and him?” McCoy asked.

“This is the first time he’s being outside.”

“ _What?!_ ” McCoy shrieked, and promptly waved off Chapel, who peeked from the emergency room with a concerned expression.

“His caretaker convinced him he is a Romulan and that everyone is afraid of him,” Jim spit out. “If I ever see that guy-”

“You know _who_ should see him?” McCoy frowned. “A damn good therapist and the Federation Security. I figured you’re in trouble with the law, that’s why you didn’t go there – but I can do it for you.”

“I know,” Jim sighed. “But I promised Spock we’ll go visit the spaceport – that’s the only reason we’re in San Fran – and the police will take him for questioning – hear me out, Bones,” he raised a hand, silencing his friend’s perfectly justified protest. “We go to the spaceport, come back, you call the Security.”

“What do you think it is, a whimsical adventure?!”

“I know it’s serious, Bones. All I ask for is twenty-four hours. If we don’t come back by tomorrow morning, sound the red alert.”

“Have you asked what _he_ wants?”

“That’s what Spock asked for. I’m not doing this for myself, you know.”

Even though it was kind of a lie.

McCoy sighed, disapproving. “So you’re feeling generous all of a sudden… For a man you barely know.”

“I know enough,” Jim crossed his arms, suddenly defiant. McCoy didn’t know about the meld, what it felt like to touch the very essence of another person, the familiarity of it...

“You don’t even know his species.”

“Do I have to?” Jim tightened his arms around himself. “I know he learnt everything about Earth geography, plays a lyre, is interested in leaving this planet for good, came close to developing warp engines while being in total isolation— I can go on. So why can’t I be generous with a man who, may I remind you, saved my life?”

McCoy sighed again, with an air of giving up this time. “Just… be careful. Something smells fishy here, and I don’t want you to get hurt because you misplaced your trust.”

“I know I don’t have any proof, but… I don’t think it’s misplaced,” Jim smiled, staring at the far end of the room. “Do you ever meet someone, and from the first moment you just think – yes. That’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”

“Uh,” McCoy said, brows creeping lower. “What are you talking about? And wipe that dreamy expression off your face, it’s making me uncomfortable.”

“It was like this with you too, you know,” Jim replied, glancing at his friend. “When you reduced the swelling on my eyes and I saw your grumpy face, I thought – that guy is going to be my friend.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment? I don’t like it.”

Jim huffed, “Not surprising. The only thing you _do_ like is bourbon.”

“Thanks for simplifying me to a single character trait,” McCoy scowled with no real anger in it; it was all a part of the game. “Alright... And who’s that weirdo supposed to be?”

“I don’t know yet,” Jim shrugged. “I just know he’s going to be important. So be prepared for some competition, you know that my gut feeling never fails me.”

“Sure, that’s exactly what you said when you convinced me to try bungee jumping.”

“I still can’t believe you agreed. Your scream will forever be embroidered in my eardrums,” Jim laughed, and when he opened his eyes, McCoy was looking at him with something akin to paternal sadness – something he has never seen in his mother’s eyes. In hers, it was always _just_ sadness.

“Look, kid,” McCoy sighed, “I’m going to say this once, so you better listen… I missed you. And the fact that you don’t tell me what’s going on is extremely worrying. And then there’s this ruckus at the San Francisco station, and that Starfleet’s investigation…”

“The artefact from the Vulcan Cultural Centre that was being transported to Earth, I’ve heard about it,” Jim added quickly – perhaps too quickly, because McCoy paused before continuing.

“No, it’s bigger than that,” McCoy leaned closer to Jim, his eyes bearing the familiar excited glint.

“Oh yes,” Jim mimicked his pose, “Doctor, Doctor, give me the news!”

“Argh, will you ever stop quoting ancient songs3 nobody knows but you...” McCoy shook his head. “You see, I treat a lot of Starfleet personnel here, and I may or may not overhear some of their conversations about things that don’t get to the news. Yesterday we got a cadet here, Hikaru Sulu, first-degree burn on his arm, failed botany experiment – I’ve heard him talking to this other cadet, who is like thirteen, who even lets these kids go into deep space… Anyway, they were talking about how recently about a hundred artefacts were stolen, Vulcan and Romulan in origin – not just that stone from the Cultural Centre.”

“Interesting,” Jim mused. A mixture of Vulcans and Romulans automatically made him think of Spock, and his intuition was quick to point out that there was something more than a mere coincidence.

He had to talk to those cadets.

“Do you know what ward Mr. Sulu is in at the moment?”

McCoy narrowed his eyes in suspicion, but replied anyway.

“Ward Fourteen.”

“Awesome. So, can we count on you to help?”

“Sure,” McCoy said tiredly. “Lucky for you, I’ve always had a soft spot for weak and helpless – tribbles, babies with Ankaran flu, you…”

“Awww, are you saying I’m cute as a tribble?” Jim pressed a hand to his cheek in a mocking gesture of shyness.

“Annoying as a tribble, that’s more like it. Now go to your Vulcan-who’s-not-actually-a-Vulcan, I can see you practically leaping out of your pants with excitement.”

Jim jumped down from the desk and slapped McCoy’s shoulder.

“Thank you for everything, Bones, you’re the best.”

“And don’t you dare forget it.”

Jim felt so much better and lighter; he couldn’t wait to see Spock again.

And he couldn’t help but think that if it wasn’t for Spock, he would simply leave Earth forever without saying goodbye to McCoy.

***

The office door was open, and Jim hang in the doorway for a few seconds, watching Spock concentrate on the computer screen with slightly furrowed brows and typing rapidly. He was wrapped from head to toe in the fluffiest white bathrobe Jim’s ever seen – probably something he found in the hospital shower. Knowing Bones, he must’ve offered Spock a set of pyjamas identical to Jim’s, and Jim couldn’t help but chuckle at the clear image of Spock refusing them stubbornly in favour of wearing something resembling his former attire.

Spock’s head snapped up at the sound, and he rose from the chair, straightening his spine and folding his hands behind his back in an officer’s parade rest. Even in the silly robe he managed to look beautiful and regal, which was unfair, honestly.

“Greetings, James,” he said, formal tone matching his stance. “Doctor McCoy has informed me about your recovery. Have you acquired a sufficient amount of rest?”

“Yep, everything’s a-okay coolio beans,” Jim said it just to see Spock’s reaction, and it was priceless. His eyebrows drew together as he attempted to puzzle out nonsensical words, causing an endearing line to appear on his forehead. However, it was smoothed out instantly, giving place to placid politeness – the default expression of a Vulcan. Jim hasn’t really paid attention before, but Spock’s expressions were never true blankness during the last night – unlike now.

He found that he missed them instantly.

“So, what you’ve been reading?” Jim asked, rocking on the balls of his feet.

“I have studied the most prominent works on Vulcan culture. If I am expected to honour my heritage, I must acquire as much information as possible. Like you said, I have already been following main Vulcan principles,” Spock’s face became even more passive. “However, I find the information lacking. Many of the files in the databanks I accessed are ciphered.”

Jim dragged another chair to the desk, cracked his knuckles, and plugged in a data chip he was always carrying around that automatically started running a script breaking the security protocols.

“Well, you’re in luck,” he pointed at the screen where the Starfleet logo was displayed above the red letters saying ACCESS DENIED, “it so happens I’ve broken into Starfleet’s databanks so many times I eat them for breakfast.”

The line between Spock’s eyebrows returned.

“I presume your meaning is metaphorical, otherwise I would advise you to discontinue this diet.”

“Just a joke,” Jim threw a brief smile at Spock, returning to deconstructing Starfleet’s defences. “You’re getting a hang of metaphors.”

“I consider this a positive development. In your opinion, will I be successful in blending in with the population at this point?”

“I guess, if you don’t talk to people too much – it won’t be a problem, you’re a Vulcan,” Jim remembered McCoy’s words, “or at least look like one, and nobody in their right mind would approach a Vulcan freely. Anyway, I’ll help you out with anything you need.”

“I thank you for your assistance, but further guidance will not be necessary. The logical course of action is finding a way to the spaceport on this map,” he showed one of McCoy’s padds, “and I will proceed on my own after that.”

“Well, us humans aren’t exactly logical. I mean, I’ll take you there, it’s no trouble. That’s what we agreed on.”

“You need your stone as soon as possible. And I have revealed myself as a touch telepath,” Spock lowered his voice at the last words and paused for a moment, apparently realizing he didn’t have to keep it a secret anymore.

“So? What’s your point?”

“I saw your mind,” Spock was looking at the wall resolutely. “You are afraid of me.”

Even though Jim knew his actions were completely rational, this kind of made him feel like an asshole.

“Well, yeah, kind of, but not really. First of all, I’m not afraid of anything; second of all, you’re a decent guy, you won’t go scrambling through my brain to look for my Netflix password,” he chuckled at his own joke but then sobered. “I might have said – thought – some pretty rough stuff last night, I must apologize.”

“No offence was taken. Your reaction was a natural act of self preservation against an unknown threat.”

Jim frowned slightly. “I promised to take you to the spaceport, and I will, I don’t go back on my promises – the real ones, at least.”

Spock looked at him thoughtfully. “I see. Your understanding of duty forces you to repay the person even if they do not require anything. In this case,” he gestured at the computer, “you may consider decoding these files your payment.”

Jim sighed. “Look, it doesn’t work this way.”

“Why not? You are not betraying your sensibilities, I am willingly freeing you from our deal.”

“Have you _asked_ if I want to be freed?” Jim ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I still want to do it, okay?”

“Why?”

“Why are you so hung up about my motivation?”

“Because I wish to understand you,” Spock said. “You are an intriguing man.”

But what words could he choose to explain to indescribable – and yes, illogical – desire to continue being Spock’s guide? He couldn’t trust anyone else not to take advantage of Spock; the only trustworthy person he could think of was McCoy, but he wasn’t the type to talk starships and be prepared for unexpected adventures.

Besides, Spock saved Jim’s life, but he wasn’t about to bring it up – it would only make Spock think his offer was out of duty or honour, and it just seemed so _important_ to show him that he wasn’t the empty shell he was so infuriatingly easy accepting himself to be. Meeting Spock was like getting a taste out of a cornucopia, leaving him craving for more, and more.

Jim watched Spock’s profile, his eyes glued to the screen, eyebrows drawn together severely in concentration, the voluminous fluff of the bathrobe brushing his chin and ears. How could he be saying _Jim_ was an intriguing man when he was a paragon of intrigue himself? Jim really should message the Standard Dictionary to ask them to include Spock’s picture under the ‘Tall, dark, and mysterious.’

“What was it you were trying to break in anyway?” Jim muttered, and at that moment, the computer chimed and several reports appeared on screen, entitled “The Stone of Gol”. The images attached revealed the artefact Jim had safely hidden in his pouch just a day earlier.

Spock bent over Jim’s shoulder while still keeping five teasing centimetres between them, scanned the text in a matter of seconds, and leaned back with a distinct air of displeasure.

“The databanks failed to provide any detailed information,” he said. “Is the knowledge not supposed to be supplied to anyone who desires it?”

“Sometimes people like to keep secrets,” Jim muttered and pointed at a line of text. “And sometimes the artefact is nearly two thousand years old; perhaps all knowledge was lost already.”

Spock didn’t reply, staring at the picture of the stone intently.

Jim spun in the chair and looked at Spock. “So, I have a feeling you want to figure out what’s going on with the stone of Gol?”

“Affirmative. I admit to being interested in the lack of information concerning this artefact. The recollection of this information will be both useful to the Vulcan culture and stimulating to my intellect, both of which would help me with entering their society.”

“Great!” Jim clasped his hands. “Believe it or not, I’m intrigued too. Solving a lifetime-long mystery is a great pastime, so what do you say we do this together?”

“I do believe you.” Surprisingly, Spock’s features softened ever so slightly. “And I am amenable to your suggestion.”

Jim smiled at him – not the way he usually did, all teeth and huge grin, but a smaller one he gave so rarely.

“Awesome. I already know what our next step should be; there is a cadet in ward fourteen, Mr. Sulu, Bones says he overheard him talking about the stone. Here’s another lesson about humans for you: sometimes gossip contains more useful information than the official reports – if you know how to listen, of course. I think we should check him out, gut feeling tells me we’ll find something there,” Jim patted his chest.

Spock’s confusion became even more evident. “Clarify. Are the origins of these sensations located in your ribcage area? I have studied human anatomy briefly, and there is no organ capable of verbal communication. You must report your symptoms to Doctor McCoy.”

“No, no,” Jim laughed, “ _gut feeling_ is just an expression. That’s what we call intuition – when you have no proof, but you just _feel_ something is right,” and wasn’t it great, to lecture a Vulcan about feelings, especially something superstitious like intuition.

After a long pause Spock said, “I understand. In situations of uncertainty you require an enabler to execute a plan and to assign blame to when your plan fails.”

“Well, that’s kinda pessimistic. My gut feeling never fails.”

“Merely a coincidence.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see who’s right,” Jim winked. “Let’s go talk to Sulu.”

“Very well. However, we must acquire nutrition first.”

“You know, you could’ve just said ‘let’s have breakfast.’ ”

“Why?” Spock’s eyebrow twitched. “You have understood me perfectly well.”

Jim laughed again, regretting being unable to express his affection in a more tactile way. Honestly, he would’ve been satisfied with just a pat on a shoulder.

But for now, he simply shoved the itching hand into the pants’ pocket.

***

The breakfast was a quiet affair in McCoy’s office. The downside was McCoy’s choice of menu: oatmeal, fresh berries, and apple juice, everything disgustingly healthy; but the upside was illegally delicious homemade butterscotch cookies one of the patients gifted McCoy to say thank you. Spock was adorably confused when the purpose of the cookies was explained; he and McCoy spend half of the breakfast in a heated conversation about merits of expressing gratitude in material possessions. Jim had to stifle his laughter a lot, mostly because McCoy was always adamant about accepting gifts for saving lives, but right now he felt a mighty need to argue with Spock simply for the sake of argument.

Another important upside was that Spock enjoyed the food a lot. Jim remembered the shitty replicator at his home, and could only imagine what kind of plastic-tasting strawberries it produced. That’s why the moment he saw Spock’s plate cleaned up, he pushed the rest of his berries and cookies towards him.

“Here, you can finish mine,” Jim said.

“I do not-“

“I know you don’t require additional something blah-blah-blah, and yet I’m giving them to you. Eat, sharing food is a part of human culture.”

“Your kindness is appreciated,” Spock said, biting into a cookie, and Jim watched the crumbs sticking to his lip, suppressing the desire to lean forward and brush them off with his thumb.

“Good lord,” McCoy muttered, stabbing his oatmeal with unnecessary aggression. “Get a room.”

“What is the reason behind your offer to rent a property?” Spock asked, wiping the crumbs with a napkin. _Here goes that plan,_ Jim’s inner voice bemoaned.

“It’s an expression,” McCoy rolled his eyes. “It means—“

“It doesn’t matter what it means,” Jim interrupted hastily, swinging his hand so fast it nearly knocked the spoon out of McCoy’s hand. “Human idioms are weird, and Bones’s choice of them is even weirder.”

“Wow, thanks a lot, kid,” sarcasm in McCoy’s voice was practically visible. “See if I help you next time you come barging in the middle of the night.”

Spock looked up at Jim from his once again clean plate. “Was I incorrect in presuming Doctor McCoy to be your friend? You insult him, and he responds in kind.”

“That’s how friendship with this idiot works,” McCoy frowned so hard his forehead took on a distinct raisin texture, which meant he was hiding a surge of fondness underneath.

It was Jim’s turn to roll eyes as he imagined Spock taking this advice to heart and insulting everyone he wanted to befriend.

“Ignore Bones,” he said. “If it’s not medicine-related, he gives the worst advice.”

“Counter point: be responsible and don’t ignore me, I need to ask you a few questions,” McCoy produced a tricorder out of nowhere and waved it over Spock. “The tricorder refuses to cooperate, so maybe you’ll tell me this: what’s your blood type?”

“I do not know,” Spock tried to dodge the instrument, but anyone who knew McCoy knew it was futile, and the best way to go was to succumb to your fate.

“What about blood pressure? Cholesterol level?”

“I do not know the exact numbers, however, I assure you that they are within normal parameters.”

McCoy sighed. “When was the last time you had a full physical?”

“Never.”

McCoy flung his hands up dramatically, as his eyes boggled and face turned cherry red – the only thing that could get McCoy really riled up, except for Jim’s escapades, was people neglecting their health. Usually Jim would find the image funny, but this time he simply glanced at Spock in worry.

“What if you’d fallen sick?!” McCoy exclaimed.

“Not possible,” Spock rebutted. “I have absolute control over my body, and I was taught how to expel all kinds of infections from a young age.”

“Damn Vulcan superiority— have you ever heard of such bullshit?!” McCoy hurled his arms at Jim.

“Spock,” he started, as gently as possible, knowing full well the refusal he’d receive. “Perhaps you should let Bones examine you.”

As expected, a stubborn eyebrow rose.

“You know about my capabilities in assessing physical conditions, including my own organism.”

“Still, Bones is a professional, he will see things you could’ve missed. It’s only logical.”

Spock regarded him for a long moment and finally said, “Very well, I will permit Doctor McCoy to take one blood sample, nothing more.”

“Gee, thanks for your incredible kindness,” McCoy grumbled and pushed a hypo into Jim’s hands. “Here, you do this, I don’t wanna get stabbed again.”

“I apologize for attacking you,” Spock said flatly. “I was informed it is considered rude in human culture.”

Jim snorted, and McCoy rolled his eyes.

“Fucking incredible.”

Jim put on medical gloves and took a hypo.

“Roll up a sleeve and keep your elbows to yourself this time, okay? I know we’re in a hospital, but I’d rather have my throat remain intact,” He smiled at Spock, holding his upper arm gently and pressing a hypo to the bared skin, hoping the layer of the bathrobe combined with the gloves would be sufficient.

A part of him revelled in what little touch was allowed, cataloguing the heat seeping through layers of fabric and density of muscles.

“Can you sense anything?” He asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

“Negative. The fabric and my mental shields create a sufficient barrier between our minds,” Spock replied, watching the needle pushing into his skin, filling the veil with dark green liquid.

Jim glanced at McCoy pointedly, showing him there was a way hypos could be administered without the patient wanting to punch the doctor every time said doctor sneaked up on him, and found him watching them with narrowed eyes.

“Here you go,” Jim passed him the veil carefully, as if it contained liquid dilithium.

“I’m gonna start the full analysis right away,” McCoy said, losing all interest in whatever he was about to say and focusing on the work ahead. “It will be ready by the end of the day, and keep in mind that if I don’t see both of you in my office in twenty-four hours, I will search for you and I _will_ find you.”

Jim didn’t hesitate for a moment that the threat-slash-care will be fulfilled.

“Sure thing, Bones. C’mon, Spock, we have a cadet to talk to before we leave this welcoming establishment.”

“Don’t scare my patients away!” McCoy shouted from the lab.

***

With the help of Christine Chapel, who attended to ward fourteen, they located the bed with Cadet Hikaru Sulu, surrounded by a privacy curtain.

Jim and Spock exchanged one final look before going in – they didn’t really discuss their plan prior to this, because it wasn’t in Spock’s habits to discuss anything with anyone, and as for Jim, his life motto was ‘wing it.’ However, Jim did try to convince Spock to act snooty like he did with McCoy (to which Spock replied he wasn’t acting like _anything_ ) and push at people’s sympathies towards Vulcans.

They pushed the curtain aside and to their surprise, saw an entire garden squeezed into the small space. Various pots and vases with flowers of all colours crowded every available surface; judging by the cards sticking from them, Cadet Sulu had a lot of concerned friends. One of those friends was another cadet, with blond curls and a childish face.

The man himself was reclining on the bed flicking through a padd with the healthy hand – the other was wrapped in bandages – and raised his head when he saw the visitors.

Jim fixed the Starfleet pin on his chest and smiled in what he hoped was a friendly, encouraging, and epiphany-prompting way. Sulu’s gaze flicked from Spock to Jim – his brows furrowed slightly, but Jim suddenly realized it could well be because everyone who looked at him saw George Kirk’s face – and back to Spock. Jim was correct in assuming the Vulcan would attract a lot more attention.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Jim said, “I would like to ask you a couple of questions. You see, I’m a detective-”

“Right,” Sulu snorted, “and I’m Zefram Cochrane.”

“And I’m the tsar of all Russia,” the other cadet quipped cheerfully.

“Your names are Hikaru Sulu and Pavel Chekov,” Spock corrected immediately looking at the padd he was holding; to Jim’s surprise, it seemed he managed to scrounge McCoy’s list of registered visitors.

Sulu stared at him in disbelief and faint curiosity. “Man, I know, it was a joke.”

“There is a Vulcan artefact which disappearance we are investigating,” Spock said, switching one padd for another in a lightning-fast movement.

One glance at the screen and Jim started, seeing the news article about the robbery.

He managed to pass an involuntary choking sound as a cough and gave Spock a ‘What the hell are you doing?!!’ glare. He expected them to ask _general questions_ about the meaning of the stone, not bring up the subject of robbery and the _robber._

Spock simply ignored the glare and asked the cadets, “I have been informed you possess information about it, is that correct?”

For one second, Jim thought their cover was blown, Spock’s unexpected focus on the robbery was too direct – but Chekov let out a thoughtful hum and said, “No, not really… All we know is the Starfleet reports that’ve been coming in.”

It seemed the unapproachability of Spock’s species and the general assumption that the Vulcans were always marching to a different tune was working in their favour.

“I see,” Spock said, dismissing the obvious lack of information the cadets had. Jim couldn’t help but notice Spock dominated the entire conversation, while he barely said a word. It wasn’t fair. Out of the two of them, Jim was supposed to be the cool and experienced one.

“We are not that interested in archaeology, to be honest,” Sulu said. “I don’t know why you picked us to ask about it. If you want a specialist in alien cultures, you really want to contact Uhura – she knows a lot about Vulcan too, so much so that she’s been asked to help with the investigation despite being a first-year.”

“Do you mean Cadet Nyota Uhura?” Spock asked.

“That’s the one. You know her?”

“We have met while she was investigating the case,” Spock replied, and Jim mentally added a tick to the list of things that made them look credible. So far so good. “Do you have a way I can contact her?”

“I don’t think she’d appreciate me giving anyone her private comm number – but I can call her for you,” Sulu said, taking out his communicator, while Jim was trying to subtly shake his head in protest.

“Please do,” Spock said, either not noticing Jim’s seizure-like movements or outright ignoring them. Sulu tapped in a number, and soon enough holographic projection of Uhura’s face appeared between them.

“Hi, Nyota!” The cadets greeted in unison.

“Hello, Hikaru, Pavel,” she replied with a smile. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, we’re calling on his behalf,” Sulu turned the projection towards Spock, while Jim edged away so that his face wouldn’t be in the frame.

“Greetings, Miss Uhura,” Spock said, and Uhura’s eyes flew wide.

“Oh, hello, Spock...” Her eyes narrowed. “Is Kirk still with you?”

“It is irrelevant,” Spock replied with a perfect amount of snobbism he said he didn’t possess. “I was hoping you could answer some questions about the stone of Gol. Mr. Sulu has informed me that you are proficient in Vulcan culture; I would appreciate if you tell us the legend about the stone.”

With a quick smile at Sulu, Uhura said, “I can’t really call myself proficient being next to an _actual_ Vulcan – and the version of the legend I know is a common one every archaeologist knows...”

“I would appreciate hearing your version still,” Spock said.

“Alright,” Uhura shifted to sit more comfortably and the pitch of her voice changed to a cadet used to giving presentations in every class. “The legend says that the stone of Gol was a psionic weapon that amplifies telepathic energy, assembled at the times before Awakening, before Vulcans and Romulans parted ways, when telepaths could learn to kill with a simple thought. After the Awakening it was disassembled and the three parts were scattered around the galaxy – the legend claims the gods destroyed it to save the civilization under their protection, but, obviously, it’s merely a work of fiction. The only well-known piece was the recently lost one, it was placed in a Vulcan Cultural Centre under heavy guard before being transported to Earth for the exhibition in honour of the anniversary of the... attack. In ancient Vulcan encryptions, it had depictions of the gods of War and Death,” Uhura paused and cocked her head in contemplation. “I have seen the holos, and I’ve noticed an interesting detail... One of the missing pieces is supposed to be attached in a way that splits the gods; I’ve never seen them being separated before. Do you know what the third element is supposed to be?”

“Archaeology is not my area of expertise,” Spock replied carefully.

“I wasn’t expecting an answer anyway,” Uhura sighed. “Anyway, that’s all that is known about the nature of the stone, and many still consider it to be a legend, but since a part of it was stolen and there were reports coming in about various groups searching for Vulcan and Romulan artefacts...”

“Someone believes it’s real and is assembling it again,” Jim finished, sliding into the frame.

Uhura gasped, “Kirk! I should have known I’d see you here. But yes, that’s precisely correct. The legend may not be truthful after all, but it’s never stopped extremists from using them as a base for their beliefs. I’d say it’s safe to assume the lost parts either have already been found during those raids, or someone has a clue as to how to find them.”

Jim frowned – perhaps it was a good thing he took the stone after all; at least now it was safely stored inside Spock’s vault, in a house only a combination of pure stubbornness and concourse of coincidences can help break into.

“What kind of clue do you refer to?” Spock asked.

“A particle signature, for example,” Jim suggested immediately the first thing that came to mind.

“Huh,” Sulu said thoughtfully, and Chekov nodded enthusiastically. “That’s a wery good idea.”

“I have formed less than favourable opinion on the topic of Starfleet’s defences for the objects of cultural significance,” Spock said.

“We’re doing everything we can to help,” Uhura’s tone took on a defiant note.

“Well, he is right, we _did_ have too many thefts in the past,” Chekov sighed. “But we delivered new exhibits to the Cultural Centre too, like the psionic enhancement apparatus from the expedition on Camus II. One mind thing for another mind thing, an equal exchange.”

“I remember that case,” Jim said, finally reclaiming his status. The case in question happened about eight years ago. “They found the life energy transference machine in the ruins of the extinct civilization along with it, didn’t they?”

“They found a lot of weird stuff they can’t explain,” Sulu said, eyes glittering with excitement of a person sharing a secret. “Some of which got a pretty bad reputation, especially after one of the archaeologists killed half of the expedition with radiation poisoning and was caught transferring her consciousness into another man’s body – what was her name, Janey Lannister?”

“Janice,” Chekov replied. “Janice Lester.”

Jim frowned. He didn’t like this at all: he heard the name Janice Lester before, and it was mentioned by Baran of all people.

“A _psionic_ enhancer? That is a curious coincidence,” Spock said thoughtfully.

Jim smirked, “Do you know the expression _‘once an accident, twice a coincidence, three times a pattern?’_ ”

“An illogical saying,” Spock crossed his hands. “A three times repetition does not warrant a pattern.”

“That saying was inwented in Russia!” Chekov supplied cheerfully. “What?” He asked when he saw the looks his friends directed at him. “It really _was_ this time!”

“Thank you for this information, Miss Uhura, that was most helpful,” Spock said, and Uhura nodded.

“Glad to be of help and good luck with your research. I hope you can prevent whatever’s going on with the stone, and,” she threw a not at all subtle glance Jim’s way, “place your trust in the right people.”

“It hurts more than any phaser would,” Jim pressed a hand over his chest dramatically in his stock reply.

Surprisingly, Spock was the one who spoke next.

“Your concern for my success in appreciated but unnecessary, Miss Uhura. I can fend for myself should the need arise.”

Uhura sighed; her gaze lingered on Spock as if she didn’t believe him (privately, Jim agreed with her sentiment), and she signed off after exchanging goodbyes with Sulu and Chekov. After that, Spock rose as well.

“James, let us proceed,” Spock said, folding his fingers into a ta’al that Sulu and Chekov tried to copy clumsily. Out of some obstinate desire to show off, Jim showed the salute as well, parting his fingers correctly despite the effort it required.

“I thought Surak prohibited you to lie,” Jim said once they were out of the cadets’ hearing range.

“I did not lie,” Spock said, and raised an eyebrow when Jim stared at him.

“Yeah, right.”

“Name a single statement I said that was untruthful.”

Jim opened his mouth and promptly closed it, going over their conversation and suddenly realizing there indeed wasn’t one.

Seeing his reaction, Spock said, “I merely stated facts. The interpretation of those facts depended on the cadets.”

“That was… actually really clever.”

“I will take it as a compliment,” Spock replied, inclining his head regally. “Although I admit I was convinced you would understand the technique of implying I used because it was the same one I used with Miss Uhura in Riverside.”

“I just didn’t realize… you’d know this stuff,” Jim finished lamely.

Spock just seemed like a man too proper to consider telling anything but the complete truth with purest intentions at heart… But then again, it was just a very strong impression. In reality Jim remembered him talking to Uhura and aggravating McCoy – and he could easily imagine Spock having to lie without lying to his caretaker when he did something the other didn’t permit, which, he bet, was a lot.

Maybe before parting ways Jim could convince Spock to let him have some one-on-one time with the guy, where Jim would happily introduce him to his fists.

“Did you know the stone of Gol is a weapon?”

Spock’s tone wasn’t accusing, and yet Jim felt instant need to defend himself.

“Of course not!” Jim stared at him, indignant. “I may be a thief, but I would never consciously sell a weapon of mass destruction to terrorists – I just thought it was a priceless Vulcan rock.”

Spock nodded in assent and didn’t ask further.

One thing was perfectly clear: it seemed like someone was searching for very particular objects, the two remaining parts. And if Baran’s threats and desire to get the stone no matter what, even risking being caught after opening fire at the hub, were anything to go by, they’ve already found them.

“You have to return the stone so that it could be properly contained,” Spock said seriously.

“I know,” Jim said, and he really did. Risk of death penalty or not, it was his duty to the safety of the people. Thankfully, Spock’s house was an impenetrable fortress, probably the safest place on Earth – which gave him reassurance that their plans to travel to the spaceport wouldn’t result in a disaster.

But before the spaceport, he proposed they explore San Francisco, just for a little while: Jim had to show Spock the real taste of the city before their inevitable parting, let him see what the real freedom was – the freedom he’ll lose with inevitable endless questioning, tests, and finger-pointing from the people who would treat him like an amusing specimen, like a sheep from a petting zoo, born and raised in a cage.

If he was perfectly honest with himself (which didn’t happen very often), he would realize if an excuse was smaller he would’ve used it anyway. This Spock thing was becoming less of an intrigue and more of an unconscious desire to stay close he told McCoy about.

If Jim had time, he could ask himself why he was suggesting they hang out despite not being able to prolong it past the promised twenty-four hours.

But as he wasn’t in the mood for self-analysis, the question remained unanswered.

There was just one thing left – talking to McCoy and actually explaining why he never came to meet him next to the shuttle with new recruits.

“How is Joanna?” He asked, looking at several holos displayed in the office next to McCoy’s computer.

“I don’t know,” McCoy hid his face behind a padd, flicking through it aimlessly. “Lost the custody. Jocelyn’s lawyer said that if I complete the Academy course I’ll be in space all the time, and the very idea of going to the Academy meant I cared more about my career than my daughter.”

“Damn. I’m sorry, man, this sucks. I didn’t know.”

“Oh course you didn’t,” McCoy said. Jim shifted his weight awkwardly.

“Look, I’m really sorry for not contacting you for such a long time, Bones. There was a lot going on – but it’s still no excuse,” Jim flung his arms around – he never was good with words of apology; although McCoy was even worse. Perhaps this stunted non-verbal support was what brought them together in the first place, because they both needed it back then.

“Yeah, it’s better not be happening again, kid.”

“It will if you keep calling me kid, I’m only six years younger than you,” Jim smiled, but only half-heartedly. After all, the divorce has added ten years to McCoy’s age in wrinkles and love for alcohol.

***

When one is incarcerated in a secluded space with a very limited amount of options while having a scientist’s mind they tend to learn all the information available – which is why Spock knew everything about the Earth. Of course, the information he was provided with was very disjointed and from different time periods – for example, he knew every aspect of constructing an efficient hovercar, but not a word was mentioned about having to take mere few steps forward to have a spaceship with warp capability. Spock designed his own warp engines prototypes – the ones he now understood were decades behind – but Nero always dismissed them as mindless fantasies a true Romulan should never indulge in.

Spock was hesitant to name the exact moment he started thinking of this as an incarceration – something that’s never happened before – but that’s what it was. Was Nero’s actions cruel? Yes. But Spock knew this cruelty was justified: he was dangerous to society, and the society – that part of it Jim so colourfully described in the club – would show nothing but brutality towards him. This is why Jim was a perfect person to be a guide: he had little self-preservation instinct, which Spock saw as the main reason Jim still haven’t fled and instead was excited to explain him the exact steps the technology took to achieve warp capability.

Jim’s proposition to spend the beginning of the day by exploring San Francisco was welcomed: Spock has studied everything about Earth’s topology, geography, and biology; and first-hand experience watching the interactions, the cultures, the behavioural patterns of different species was something he had to learn to complete the picture.

Their first destination was the clothing store, upon Jim’s suggestion. He seemed very dissatisfied with the replacement clothes the hospital gave him: the same attire he wore while sleeping, but in black. Spock opted to stay in the comfortable robe he found in the bathroom.

“Sure, San Fran is diverse,” Jim said, waving the credit chip Dr. McCoy has given them, “and if anyone asks we’re gonna say we’re from planet Bathrobe and we’re required to wear this by our Queen’s decree. But if we don’t want to stand out, we’re gonna need something... normal. Up-to-date. Fashionable.”

Jim laughed when Spock asked what quadrant planet Bathrobe was in, then he laughed some more once they entered the part of the store that sold headgear. The sound was very pleasant in both its novelty and the positive emotions Jim was projecting that didn’t require a touch to sense.

Spock agreed with the notion of having to cover his ears and eyebrows – the features that attracted the most attention – however, Jim’s methods were... highly irrational.

“Okay, okay, try this one,” he said in between choking sounds that were poorly repressed laughter and plopped a hat on Spock – a ‘cowboy hat’, the label said.

“As I have already stated, I do not wish to wear a hat, especially the one meant for the cow people, the species I do not belong to,” Spock put it away to the pile of discarded items. “Are you simply using me as a repository for your amusement?”

The choking sounds turned into real laughter.

“Of course not! It’s a serious operation. Called ‘Find the weirdest hat in this shop’. You look hilarious.”

Jim was contradicting himself.

“I am not supposed to look hilarious, I should be, to quote your own words, discreet as to not draw attention to myself _._ ”

Jim waved a hand at him dismissively.

“We are working on it, nothing’s wrong with having a bit of fun in the meantime,” Jim motioned him to stand in front of a mirror, while throwing a straw hat decorated with a bouquet of zinnias on his head. The movement brought his hands too close for Spock’s liking. “Look at yourself, you’ll get what I mean. How would you describe this look?”

The hat didn’t serve any of the purposes they deemed necessary.

“My adjective of choice is ‘ridiculous.’ ”

“See, it’s funny!” Jim stared at him, as if expecting him to have some sort of an epiphany. Spock just wanted to appease him, besides, Jim offered him to be a participant in a human custom, and as a scientist Spock couldn’t pass this opportunity of transforming his theoretical knowledge into practice.

“I see. You find contradictions humorous. In this case…” He took the hat off and plopped the hat on top of Jim’s head instead. “Now you look hilarious too.”

He was rewarded with a huge smile, which meant his experiment was a success.

“Now you’re getting it!” He made a half-twirling motion next to the mirror. “But joke’s on you, I can pull off anything.”

To accentuate his words Jim pulled one of the zinnias out of the hat and tucked it into the buttonhole of Spock’s robe – not once his fingers coming in contact with the fabric, let alone his skin. For someone so illogical, loud, and impulsive, Jim was certainly careful when he wanted to be.

In the section with clothes that could actually prove useful, Jim quickly chose himself an outfit almost identical to the one he used to wear before, including a t-shirt with a rainbow piercing a Starfleet symbol; that’s why Spock was surprised when Jim spent a questionably long amount of time holding up various items of clothing and discarding them with a head shake even though they were in a perfectly good condition.

Eventually he settled on black pants the label called “jeans” (a lot tighter Spock was used to; Jim told him this was the most fashionable model), a shirt, a soft sweater, and finally a black waist-long poncho-like cloak with sleeves long enough to cover his fingertips. Spock tied the sash over the jeans; it would be wasteful to throw away an item in a good condition. Besides, Jim was adamant about him keeping it, he said something about a “lucky item”. Turns out, he was referring to the fact that he used it to direct Spock without having to touch his body or use words, which was indeed useful, but its connection to luck was still unclear.

“What do you think?” Jim asked after motioning Spock to stand in front of a mirror; his eyes swept up and down Spock’s clothes multiple times, gaze intense, perhaps to assess the finer details of the chosen outfit.

Honestly, Spock knew nothing about fashion; without a point of reference, he couldn’t form an opinion, and that’s exactly what he told Jim.

“Well, I have an opinion – you look great,” he said, eyes travelling upwards one final time and settling on Spock’s in the mirror. A pause. “You know, for mingling with the crowd.”

An unnecessary addition – what else could he possibly look good for?

The hood of the cloak sufficiently hid his ears and eyebrows – but unfortunately not before one of the retail workers folding the clothes saw him uncovered.

Just as they were heading to the exit, she stepped in their way, making no eye contact, staring at the floor.

“Uh, hi. Hello. I just wanted to say...” She fiddled with a piece of clothing she was holding. “I’m so sorry.”

The words tumbled in a rush; she nodded at Spock quickly and shuffled sideways until disappearing in the racks of dresses. Spock’s gaze trailed after her; but Jim sighed and motioned towards the exit.

“Should we summon a medical team?” Spock asked once they were in the street.

“Huh?” Jim seemed taken aback by the question.

“Earlier you said nobody in their right mind would approach a Vulcan freely, and yet this woman did, therefore I conclude she is not in her right mind, which, as I have understood, is a euphemism for an illness. The fact that she offered her condolences for the reason unknown proves this.”

Jim huffed out a laugh. “No, no medics are needed, I was exaggerating, and she was just being nice. Today’s the anniversary of the destruction of Vulcan, she was saying sorry. That’s how humans show compassion.”

“It is an illogical practice. She did not need to apologize because most likely she was not responsible for the destruction. Her display of compassion lasted eight seconds and could not have had an effect on me, even if, as she presumed, I wanted to discuss the event, because she did not let me express my opinion.”

Jim ran a hand over his hair, a sigh escaping his lips. “Well, she just wanted you to know you’re not alone. It helps to know your grief is shared.”

Spock considered him for a few moments.

“What about you? You are alone; who do you share your grief with?”

Jim shrugged and stuffed his hands deep inside the jacket’s pockets.

“Like I said, it helps, but it’s not necessary. I’m totally fine.”

Spock knew it was a lie; the imprint of Jim’s mood still burnt clear in his mind.

“Did it help when we talked yesterday?”

There was a long pause during which Spock thought perhaps he needed to repeat the question; but then Jim said, “Yeah.”

His shoulders straightened.

“Yeah, I guess it did.”

His words were genuine.

Spock nodded solemnly. “Very well. I will endeavour to continue offering myself as a conversation partner for the duration of our travelling.”

“This was the most eloquent way to say ‘I’m here if you need to talk,’ ” Jim smiled in that pleasant way, so different from the smiles he gave out during his laughing fits. “Same goes to you, you know. You can ask me anything you want too.”

Spock nodded once. “Thank you.”

He has already expressed his gratitude to Jim for sharing information; but this was an invitation to exchange personal impressions, something more difficult and more important for both of them.

“Tell me how you thought of warp engines,” Jim said, his voice rising to its regular volume again. _Brightening_ , Spock would say if he had to choose a poetic comparison.

“Why are you asking? This phase of technology has already passed on your planet.”

Was this a deflection of their previous course of conversation, the lack of desire to share personal information? No, this would be illogical; they have already shared so much, both verbally and mentally.

Perhaps it was simply a leap of logic Spock couldn’t follow within Jim’s too-fast thoughts.

“I’m just curious,” Jim said, looking at him with a strange expression, both eager and gentle, “I’m really intrigued how you managed to whip up a warp engine out of a piece of string, a candy wrapper, and an iron.”

Spock inhaled deeply, preparing for a speech to debunk every wrong word Jim said.

“First of all, an engine cannot be built out of the materials you named, second of all, I did not built an engine because my house did not have enough space; all my models were only recorded on the computer; furthermore, calling it a warp engine is incorrect as I did not, in fact, achieve warp capability, I have simply built an engine with a higher velocity and little fuel consumption...”

He didn’t finish because Jim was laughing again, his eyes and even nose crinkling – and Spock wasn’t disappointed with the unfinished speech at the slightest.

Thus, they spent another hour solely discussing the efficiency of the various engine designs, with Jim telling about the most recent fuel formulas they adopted from various planets, and Spock fitting the new discoveries into the empty slots of his knowledge and offering his opinion on their cons compared to the Earth technology – a subject he has no choice but be proficient in.

***

In his mind, Jim has already planned the entire trip, involving the places that held the best memories for him, like the Giorgio’s pizzeria, the SF Public Library, and the Golden Gate park, in the shadowy corner of which they were now sitting.

Jim sat on the grass with his eyes closed and head thrown back to catch the rays of sunlight passing through the leaves of an old oak tree; Spock was buried in the padd again, oblivious to the world. Whenever Jim craned his neck he could see a new topic on the screen: from Promethean Nebula to the history of the United Federation of Planets, from the last war with Klingons to the breeding of Risan sea turtles.

Jim has long given up following his speed of reading: if it wasn’t for knowing about Vulcans’ eidetic memory he would’ve questioned if Spock actually remembered anything.

He allowed himself to indulge in a peaceful moment, pleasantly lacking phasers and mercenaries; right now his most important task was watching a cat warming its whiskers in a spot of sunlight on a branch.

The cat slowly opened its eyes and regarded Jim – and a second later it was on the ground, sniffing his jacket for the remains of the butterscotch cookies. Jim fed it a single crumb, while Spock watched raptly; and to Jim’s utter surprise, he extended a hand to beckon the cat towards him.

It went willingly, arching its spine under Spock’s gentle fingers, and purring loudly as it put the front paws on his chest and rubbed its nose into Spock’s cheek.

Jim stared, torn between wanting to voice his surprise at such enthusiastic acceptance of physical contact and desire to nuzzle into Spock’s other cheek. Luckily, he went with the former.

“I see you have to problem touching animals,” he said carefully.

Spock rubbed the cat’s ears, earning more purring.

“I have always found comfort in their company,” he said thoughtfully. “Animal minds are simpler and do not seek contact with my own automatically; I can see their thoughts and emotions only if I choose to. They are conscious and thinking, and yet they can’t assault me and their opinions are simple.”

So animals were allowed inside the force field?...

“You had a chance to communicate with animals?” Jim asked.

“My caretaker would sometimes bring in animals for me to practice mind melds on them. They were there to keep me company for the duration of my studies, however short it was. A cat similar to this one has lived inside my house for sixteen days, actually.”

The cat swished its tail over Spock’s face like a feather duster, and Jim couldn’t stifle a laugh.

“What was it like, to meld with animals,” Jim asked with genuine curiosity, pressing his chin into his knees, “compared to humans?”

Spock paused, seemingly searching for words to describe the differences – after all, Jim himself wasn’t sure he could find words to properly express his melding experiences.

“Their minds are constructed in a simpler way, and their emotions and desires are basic, granting me an easier access. They did not understand the purpose of my actions,” Spock said. “They were afraid. I have tried to convince them I had no intention of hurting them, however, they did not believe me. But after a while they got used to my exercises and while they still feared the intrusion, they welcomed my company outside the meld, as I welcomed theirs. Perhaps the reason they were afraid of me was my lack of finesse in melding techniques. I do not know if I have even been developing properly as a telepath.”

Jim couldn’t imagine how awfully lonely it must’ve been for Spock.

...Okay, he could imagine that a bit.

Could Spock feel this resemblance, this connection against all odds? Probably not, any palpable connection they had was severed once Spock’s fingers left his face. But if Jim wanted, he could probably rationalize the need to stay together...

Jim wondered how that proposition would go. “I’m lonely, you’re lonely, let’s stick together, it’s logical.” He kicked himself mentally for how pathetic and needy he sounded. Honestly, it would’ve been so much better to be a Vulcan – not to feel or need. To be okay with meeting an incredible stranger and part ways with him without looking back. But at the same time, Jim knew his desire was selfish and therefore he wouldn’t act on it: Spock needed someone sweet, kind, and gorgeous to introduce him to life; not another broken man. It was time to do a selfless act.

They would say goodbye as they initially planned, and the most he could hope for was having an honorary mention as “the first man I met outside the prison doors” in Spock’s mind.

Perhaps inevitability was the saddest concept.

But it was for the best. If Jim repeated those words enough, maybe it’d be easier. It was for the best.

His traitorous brain kept reminding him that there could’ve been anyone else sitting with Spock on the lawn right now – Spock would consider anyone else an incredible example of humanity and would listen to them so attentively… The only reason they were together because Spock imprinted on him or something, and once he became accustomed to the society, he would let go.

“Where is that cat now?” Jim asked, snapping out of the reverie.

“I presume it was returned to its point of origin,” Spock said, watching the cat climb back up a tree, chasing a pigeon, “just like everyone else I have encountered.”

Jim watched him for a long, long time, even after he went back to reading the padd.

“Hey, you want something to eat?”

The words came out too forcefully cheerful for his liking.

Unperturbed by the sudden change of the atmosphere, Spock glanced back at him.

“Is this the ritual where I have to lie and agree with the proposition?”

“That is exactly right,” Jim smiled, standing up.

***

“...And that’s why we don’t trust the deals the Orions offer us anymore,” Jim made another wide gesture with the fork having just finished a long explanation of the Orions’ political alignment – every time he did it, Spock mentally calculated the trajectory a piece of pasta would fly along if it were to slip off. The couple at the table next to them was definitely in danger.

The restaurant they were at had an atmosphere Jim described as ‘cosy and vintage’. Apparently, it was made to imitate an average house of a human in the twenty-second century, with decorations that included drapings with excessive patterns Jim explained were considered fashionable in that time period, brown cushioned chairs blending into the background, bookshelves with mockups of plastic books inside, and a dark orange tablecloth made of unfamiliar glittery material.

Quite wisely, Jim chose the table in the furthest, darkest corner of the hall where nobody would pay attention to them, which meant the light streaming from the tall thin windows didn’t quite reach their table, and instead it was basked in the subtle yellowish light of the ceiling lamp and flame from the artificial candles set next to the panel where they could type in their orders.

When Jim insisted Spock _had_ to state a preference for an eating establishment they will visit, the only experience he deemed relevant to retell was yesterday’s replicator experiment and his curiosity about the taste of the real Fettuccine Alfredo. ‘Consider it gratitude for saving my life,’ Jim said, ordering an outrageous amount of dishes; although it was strange to hear Jim equating the value his life had with a bowl of pasta.

Naturally, the taste turned out to be a lot different – and more palatable – than the meal from the replicator. Accompanied by Jim’s enthusiastic retelling of political situation in the Federation, peppered with jokes that Spock didn’t usually understand but that induced a very pleasing sound of Jim’s laughter, the time was not _wasted_ , per se, and yet Spock couldn’t help but calculate the amount of articles he could’ve read instead of consuming a meal he was not in need of.

“Why are you fidgeting?”

Spock blinked at Jim who paused over his meal. Either Jim had a particular talent in reading tiniest body language signs, or Spock has let his control slip further than he realized.

“My time would be better spent acquiring knowledge,” Spock answered honestly, and Jim leaned forward, his tone becoming secretive. Unconsciously, Spock mirrored his pose.

“Knowledge isn’t just reading a ton of books,” he said softly. “This is useful too. You can learn all about human customs.”

Human customs. It was, indeed, one of the interests Spock stated – any kind of social interaction was an experiment for him; and it made him wonder about what Jim’s motivations were. He was a kind person at his core, but pushed to an extreme by the circumstances and clearly not inclined to a commitment that would push him away from his desired goal.

There were candles on their table, the atmosphere of the restaurant was calm, welcoming, so unlike the bar they visited the day before, the one Jim clearly took him to to demonstrate the faults of humanity and make him want to abandon the idea of travelling to the spaceport. Did Jim change his mind? Was he simply repaying Spock for saving his life? He did ask Jim about the reason he stayed, but Jim sidestepped the question, and Spock allowed it because he was secretly afraid otherwise it would make Jim see the irrationality of his decision.

He looked at Jim’s free hand lying on the table, next to a candle with an artificial flame Jim claimed was there ‘for the mood’. If only he could touch it without repercussions, to learn Jim’s thoughts – or to simply feel the enticing pulse of his mind again...

Even though their first meld was a forceful extraction of information, and the second a simple healing one, interrupted, a taste was enough to crave more.

Jim was making the deeply buried yearning to be touched resurface. He couldn’t allow it: admitting desire to be touched was admitting defeat.

Spock really was due to a meditation.

“Besides,” Jim was continuing meanwhile, oblivious to his thoughts, “it’s not like you’re expected to learn everything in a single day. You’re only twenty, you’ll have plenty of time.”

Interesting.

“I did not tell you my age,” Spock said, and Jim’s eyes widened, seemingly in result to coming to the same realization.

“You... didn’t actually. Huh.”

Any previous interest Spock had in the meal was lost now as he locked his fingers together and peered at Jim’s face, illuminated by the soft candlelight.

“Apparently, the accidental transference went both ways.”

“How is it even possible? I’m not a telepath,” Jim frowned deeply, and Spock had to suppress a pang of regret for revealing the information. “So... is it good? Is it bad? Am I dying?”

“You are not dying, but it is most unusual,” Spock replied. The case demanded to be studied, but he couldn’t possibly ask Jim to allow access to his mind again, not when he reacted so badly to telepathy. “One of the explanations I see is my mind sensing a similar pattern within yours – not unlike the ones bonded couples have to allow free mental communication – and automatically transferring the information into it wrongly assuming the connection existed and your mind was ready to accept it. Of course, even though it was not intentional, this was my mind’s mistake, for which I apologize.”

“Oh. That’s… fascinating,” Jim’s smile was brief and not at all natural. “You are saying our minds are compatible.”

“Technically, yes...” Spock paused.

“I feel like there’s a ‘however’ here.”

“However, more research must be conducted about the relations between telepaths and psi-null species. Unfortunately, that is all I can tell you at the moment.”

“It’s okay,” Jim said, and this time his smile seemed genuine, bringing a wave of relief. “Our minds being similar is not a big deal.”

Maybe it really was _okay,_ but meeting a mind that was naturally compatible to his own definitely _was_ a big deal (Spock definitely considered how curious the coincidence of accidentally meeting a person like this among the billions was).

Seeing no other information needed to be departed on this topic, Spock addressed something else that was of interest to him.

“May I ask what is the significance of these candles?” Spock asked. “There is enough daylight to illuminate the table.”

Jim flicked the switch of a candle off and on again thoughtlessly.

“It’s just a decoration.”

“An unnecessary decoration that provides nothing but additional expenses,” Spock noted, and Jim grinned.

“Well, it’s a _thing_ , you know. Dinner and a candle. A symbol,” he spread his hands wide.

A symbol. Holding a hand while dying was a symbol too, Jim said.

“Do all humans put so much value in symbolism?”

“Most of us do, yes,” Jim nodded. “And not only humans – many other species too, including Vulcans, by the way. Actually,” he paused, “I can’t think of any culture who wouldn’t value some grand gestures. You don’t like it?”

“I find the concept strange at best and both unnecessary and destructive. Although I do realize it ties into the tendency to overexpress one’s emotions.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Jim nodded enthusiastically. “Some people go all the way for a chance to make a symbolic gesture – I think if taking a loudspeaker and screaming at the top of their lungs at the galaxy about their intentions was possible they would use it every day.”

Spock twisted a zinnia now inserted into the poncho’s pocket between his fingers.

“Do flowers have a symbolic meaning as well?”

Jim shrugged. “Yeah, there’s an old tradition to assign meaning to them, called the language of flowers – you can look it up, I don’t actually know any of them.”

Before he could finish the sentence, Spock has already found an article dedicated to the interpretation of flowers.

Jim took a flower from a mixed bouquet – missing an absent friend – and presented him with the red one.

Of heart.

***

Jim has convinced him it was absolutely _imperative_ to stay in the restaurant after the end of their meal. In which ‘convinced’ meant ‘nagged Spock endlessly for the remainder of the meal until he had no choice but to agree.’

Jim treated the fact they both enjoyed chess like some kind of a profound revelation, and that’s why they were sitting at the table at the moment, a padd projecting a hologram of a three-dimensional chess set between them. Spock wasn’t complaining: there was definite enjoyment associated with spending time with Jim in calm conversation and a game that stimulated both their intellects, especially after Jim seemed to abandon his initial negative reaction to the revelation of their minds’ compatibility. All in all, Spock wished to prolong the moment, even at the cost of visiting spaceport later than he expected.

Jim didn’t seem to worry about his own deadlines, which was especially surprising after seeing the fatalistic qualities his forefront thoughts seemed to have in the meld.

Yet again, Spock was wondering about his motivation. Did Jim honestly believe being Spock’s guide was worth giving up his salvation? No, this couldn’t be it. Jim may have no self-preservation instinct, but he wasn’t stupid.

Case in point: the game.

In another unexpected move he captured another one of Spock’s pieces.

“Next time we play we _have_ to get a real chess set, that’s so much better than the padd stimulation, right?”

“I do not prefer one form of the game to another because its essence is the same,” Spock said, inspecting the board and moving a pawn forward, “however, there is a certain appeal in being able to t-- to sense the texture of the pieces.”

“Yeah, I agree. You know, when I played chess as a child – I started when I was about six – my mother gave me a padd like yours, a really crappy one, I think mostly to keep me from getting in her way. So I trained, and eventually I entered a contest where we played a real set – I was so amazed that moment, it felt so _real,_ ” he sighed at the happy memory.

“Jim, you said I could ask you any questions.”

“Sure did,” Jim smiled encouragingly. “Shoot.”

The meaning of the idiom was clear in the context, and Spock decided not to pretend not to understand it: the humorous effect he would want to achieve another time didn’t suit the question he wanted to ask.

“In the transference I saw that you lost your family. Yet at the beginning of our acquaintance you said, I quote, ‘Only my mother calls me James’. You used present tense. What happened to your mother?”

Jim put the castle in its square with more force than necessary, and Spock was just about to tell he didn’t have to answer the question, when he finally spoke.

“Well, we’re kinda similar here,” he said, looking at the board intently. “My dad is dead, obviously, and my Mom may be alive, but I never knew her that well...”

“Why would the death of your father be obvious?” Spock asked when Jim trailed off.

“Oh, right, I forgot you don’t know this story,” Jim said. “He died when I was born – I’ll spare you the details. Honestly, it’s such a rarity to meet a person who doesn’t judge me by the deeds of my parents.”

Spock decided to avoid mentioning making a connection between several facts: today was the anniversary of Jim’s birth, as well as the anniversary of the destruction of Vulcan, both events happened twenty years ago. Jim’s reaction every time Vulcan was mentioned was uneasy as well. He saw a mention of a man by the name of Kirk in his research of Vulcan, but earlier dismissed it since many humans seemed to have identical names despite not being related.

Putting Jim in a state of distress wasn’t Spock’s goal, so he decided to drop the matter for now. Later he could search for articles containing Jim’s name to satisfy his curiosity.

“As you wish,” he said, and prompted Jim to return to the original question, “your mother?”

“She is an Engineer – right now she is stationed on Starbase Twelve, but when I was young, she kept searching for a job that would sit right, that would help forget the catastrophe she witnessed, so she travelled from one planet to another base to another ship. She is quite talented, my Mom,” a bitter smile, “and quite famous – not only because she was a Kelvin survivor, but for her work too. So she got a lot of offers and was barely home,” Jim paused and sighed. “I don’t blame her. Taking care of two children and her own mental state was more than she could handle, so instead of ultimately failing in everything, she chose _one_ thing to focus on, the closest: herself. I honestly think she’s happier now than she could’ve been if she spent herself on trying to keep me in line.”

Jim's mother seemed to act in a purely logical way - and for the first time Spock wondered if logic truly was the sole answer to every query.

“I have wondered why my biological parents chose to leave me,” Spock said. “Perhaps their reasoning was similar: their lives are more fulfilling without me interfering.”

“Well, this sucks,” Jim exhaled sharply, look distant. “What else is there to say.”

But while Spock had a rational reason to be left behind, Jim didn’t deserve being treated like this.

“Oh, don’t make that face.”

“I am not making any faces.”

“Do too.”

“My muscle control is absolute, I know when I moved the muscles on my face, and right now I did not,” Spock insisted stubbornly.

In his short study of Vulcan he learned they were even more tightly controlled – compared to them, Spock was an emotional abomination. He tried to shut himself down as much as he could.

“It’s not a bad thing!” Jim exclaimed hurriedly, hands flying up. “It’s all in your eyes,” Jim turned the communicator towards him. In the reflective surface of its screen Spock saw nothing but his usual impassive face. He averted his gaze; his face was not something he wished to look at. “For example, right now they are angry at me for saying you made a face.”

“Anger is an emotion I do not feel,” Spock moved away from the object being unceremoniously shoved under his nose.

Jim huffed out a laugh, “Dunno, you seemed pretty angry when you almost broke my neck.”

“I consciously displayed signs of aggression in my body language to convey my intentions clearer.”

“Yeah, right. And right now you’re _not_ feeling emotions of annoyance at being poked with a communicator.”

Spock moved four inches back to avoid the aforementioned poking, but Jim followed, practically lying on the table and tapping the communicator on Spock’s shoulder.

It was annoying, sure – but without malice and just the right amount to ignite beginnings of irritation without provoking desire to flee from contact that was supposed to be undesirable. Spock wondered how Jim managed to calculate the perfect amount of emotional pressure he could handle.

“Are you trying to distract me from the original course of the conversation? If you did not want to proceed with it, you should have told me so.”

“Dunno,” Jim shrugged, finally straightening and pocketing the communicator. “It’s just... Sometimes you think you don’t wanna talk about something personal, but when you actually talk about it turns out that’s what you needed all along…” He moved his hand in an erratic gesture. “That’s just like the therapists operate. You know how it is.”

“I do not. I have never discussed anything personal with anyone, and obviously I have not encountered a therapist among my teachers.”

Jim pursed his lips unattractively, expression hardening beyond Spock was used to seeing.

“The dude who raised you is a dick.”

“He is a Romulan.”

“And a huge metaphorical dick. He didn’t love you at the slightest, no matter what he told you.”

“I know,” Spock said simply, and seeing Jim’s utterly surprised expression he had to explain his meaning. “I know he does not love me, he has stated as such on multiple occasions. It would be illogical for him to develop such an emotion towards me, he knows I am incapable of returning it. And even if he ignored the lack of logic as most emotional beings tend to...” Spock shook his head, slightly amused at having to explain such a simple idea to Jim. “He still would not form an attachment to me.”

Spock was just _Spock_. Turns out, he had even less to his name than he originally thought: none of his ideas were fresh, there was nothing he could give anyone to make them benefit from association with him. There was no reason, logical or not, for anyone to become attached.

The only reason Nero continued providing him with base for living was most likely out of sense of duty, internally he must’ve found Spock’s continuous attempts to grasp reality using the limited sources amusing.

It was then that he understood how pointless his existence was: he was truly empty. Occasionally, when he studied the works of philosophers who asked themselves about the meaning of life, Spock extrapolated the question on himself as the means of connecting to the material – and he would always think he was a learner. But if the reality was far vaster and far more different than the texts he was provided was said, and his knowledge was nulled, who was he now?

Jim opened and closed his mouth, as if he wanted to say something but decided against it in the last moment. He looked to the side, frowned, something resolute flashing through his eyes; and finally asked, “What about your biological parents, do you think they ever tried to find you?”

“I do not know where they are now. I am supposed to have familial bonds with my parents – that is how Romul- my mind is organized. When I go into deep meditation I sense only one familial bond – a very faint one. I do not know if that is how it is supposed to be, I do not have a point of reference, but I conclude that only one of my biological parents is alive. Now that I know about Vulcan, I presume they perished in the destruction,” he slid a finger through the hologram of his bishop. “Perhaps it was another lie in an unnecessary notion to ‘spare my feelings’, as the saying goes.”

Jim huffed, pushing his queen a layer up – if it was a real set it would’ve made an indignant smashing sound.

“Was there _any_ point in your life when you weren’t surrounded by uncaring assholes?”

“I had teachers,” Spock said, fondly reminiscent. It was a rare feeling he indulged in sometimes – the capacity to experience it came once he realized the teachers would never return. “One of them was exceptionally kind to me during the short amount of time she stayed in my house, despite the fear she experienced. T’Mira. Upon her departure she even gifted me with this sash,” he showed the edges of the sash wrapped around his hips, enjoying the smooth texture sliding on his fingertips.

He was never the one to show sentimentality towards objects – they were simply things, easily replaceable, replicated, it was illogical to _prefer_ them – but Spock preferred the sash out of all his possessions, something he was often ashamed of. In the privacy of his mind there was no logic in denying that it was T’Mira’s intent giving the gift what made it valuable. But even in such a privacy Spock couldn’t admit that he still hoped he would meet her again someday. Hope was forbidden and dangerous. Especially when he thought he wouldn’t be able to leave the house; but now that he did perhaps he could find h—

“Why did she leave you if she was so caring? Why didn’t she tell anyone about the horrible conditions you were living in?” Jim grumbled in stubborn defiance.

“My conditions were not horrible – you saw my house, I had everything to ensure a peaceful and healthy existence.”

“ _Existence_ ,” Jim muttered under his breath, obviously not meaning for Spock to hear.

“She had other duties to attend to, no doubt. She has fulfilled her obligation of teaching me many meditation techniques and emotional control, and because we did not have a familial bond she could have formed if she wanted to accept me as her adoptive son, she had no other reason to stay.”

After all, Nero never did.

Jim hummed, “I didn’t know Vulcans could do adoption. I thought those bonds formed spontaneously – I mean,” he made a wild gesture that made the hologram jiggle, “that’s what I heard, I’m not an expert.”

“That is not entirely correct,” Spock replied. Even though both T’Mira and Nero discouraged him from sharing personal information with others, there were certain pleasant attributes in telling Jim something he was interested in. His physical ways of expressing interest, such as the certain lightness of his eyes and creases on the skin around them, were very appealing, and his mental ways had to be fascinating as well, although Spock wouldn’t have a chance to experience them. “The only unconsciously forming bond is the one between biological parents and their child that develops since the moment of the child’s consumption. Occasionally, there are mentions of others – like a bond forming between a pair of warriors before they are even born, about their shared future written in the stars as the constant of the universe... But these are mere fictitious stories to entertain small children.”

Surprise painted Jim’s features. “Your caretaker read you fairytales? Huh, I didn’t picture him as the type.”

“You do not know him well enough to picture him as any type,” Spock replied, and Jim muttered _“Oh, trust me, I do”_ under his breath.

“And he did not,” Spock continued. “T’Mira has told me several legends for my general cultural education.”

“Well, at least she seems to have taught you some good stuff.”

“She was a very influential woman,” Spock indulged in a brief feeling of nostalgia again; he knew Jim wouldn’t judge him. “When I was a child, I even copied her hairstyle,” under Jim’s curious gaze, Spock elaborated, “she had a long braid that seemed very impressive to me in my youth. So I grew out my hair to be as long – sixty-four centimeters, to be exact.”

“Seriously?!” Jim’s eyes flew wide and finally there was a spark of happiness. He leaned sideways to look at the back of Spock’s head as if he expected the hair to spring out suddenly. “Why did you cut it?”

“The decision was based on logic. Having long hair is counter-productive and interfered with my engineering projects, and maintaining it served no purpose other than aesthetic – and since I did not have anyone to appease with my appearance, I have cut it. My caretaker requested it as well.”

The happiness was wiped clean; Jim’s features darkened again.

“That fucking prick,” he mumbled, barely audible, and Spock decided to ignore it as to not start another argument. Jim wasn’t present for that conversation and didn’t know Nero has stated the same logical reasons, emphasizing the uselessness of maintaining his appearance according to a standard set by someone else. Spock suspected the other reason was T’Mira – after all, the conversation and the subsequent request happened only after he confessed growing out his hair in her memory. It was either keeping the hair or the sash; of course Spock chose something that was irreplaceable. He had the ability to grow the hair out at any moment, so it was without any real regret that he has took the scissors and started chopping the braid off. It was a price worth paying.

Jim hummed and frowned at the chessboard deeply. Spock shifted his focus on the game as well.

When Spock told Nero his statements about being self-sustained and in need of other minds are contradictory, he said the only mind Spock needed to communicate with was Nero’s and his own. This resulted in Spock spending a lot of time perfecting meditating techniques; his teachers praised him for being naturally gifted in this, and later he polished his abilities to perfection, wishing the teachers could witness his progress. Craving for other minds was manageable most of the time, save for occasional spurts of bone-crushing loneliness Spock tried to trample best to his ability – loneliness was something he was not allowed to feel. Not only because it was an emotion, but also because feeling this way was showing ungratefulness towards the man who provided and protected.

“So, how are you holding up anyway?” Jim asked unexpectedly. He didn’t move a single piece despite staring at nothing but the board for the past few minutes.

If Spock could, he would prolong the need to answer by moving one of the chess pieces; but as Jim hasn’t made his move yet, he had to reply right away.

“I admit to experiencing confusion as to how to properly honour my heritage I did not know existed thirteen hours and forty-seven minutes ago. If I am a Vulcan, society has expectations about me, many of which I do not know, judging by scarce bits of information I have found about the nation.”

“Honestly, Spock,” Jim leaned forward with his hands on the table, and looked at him seriously. “Fuck expectations. Be who _you_ want to be. They,” he made a vague gesture that ended up pointing at an empty table and holo of a pigeon on the wall, “don’t get to tell you anything. Don’t let yourself be surrounded by uncaring assholes again.”

That was a good advice, delivered with passion, the conviction needed. Spock wanted to be the learner he never got a chance to be: so he would forget the twenty wasted years that held nothing, nothing; and he would search for something to mend the hole the destruction of his barely-there identity caused.

“I am surrounded by you at the moment,” he told Jim. “I consider this an improvement,” the corners of his mouth lifted in a tiniest smile he’s allowed himself only once before: after T’Mira said they will not see each other again and presented him the sash; this way he didn’t have to witness her reciprocal disappointment.

Jim wouldn’t be disappointed, he knew.

He just returned his smile – full and wide.

“Consider _this_ ,” Jim said, putting Spock’s king in check.


	4. Chapter 4

 

To host all the starships connecting Earth to the furthest ends of the galaxy an entire continent the size of Australia would have to be occupied – that’s why a wise decision was made to create an interplanetary travelling hub in Earth’s orbit in space, serving both civilians and Starfleet.  A free shuttle coursed from the station to San Francisco every fifteen minutes, and Jim used some sharp elbow digs and a few charming smiles (depending on who they were aimed at) to secure the best observational seats for Spock and himself among the passengers.

Spock stared at the Earth growing smaller and smaller; Jim stared at Spock, watching out for every twitch of muscle to reveal the depth of suppressed feeling. Seeing this got Jim so stupidly excited, even more than the prospect of travelling itself – perhaps as a way of compensating in expression for both of them. Or maybe because he felt like he could live off of making someone happy.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He asked.

“The view is indeed pleasing,” Spock said without looking away from the window.

“Wait till we get to the hub,” Jim smiled, “I’ll show you the best spot to see the Earth from.”

That’s how they found themselves on the sixth level of the hub, in a darkened room next to an observation window, illuminated only by the Earth’s soft glow. It was smaller than the other windows, in a narrow area – that’s why it didn’t attract many people.

After the life-threatening situations Jim was in yesterday he figured it was only natural for the universe to give him something like an apology gift basket. He never wanted this day to end, that’s why it came as the most pleasant surprise when he remembered that the space station’s timezone was different from San Francisco’s: it gave him four extra hours to spend as he pleased.

“I remember flying to the hub for the first time,” he told Spock. “Seeing Earth like this… The best memory I have.”

 _Had_ , prior to this day, he added internally.

Perhaps understanding the incomprehensible expanse of the universe was one of the best realizations he had. He was seven and unsuccessfully tried to run away from home; ever since that day every time he felt like moving on was unbearable, he would take the free shuttle to stand next to the observation window, to look into deep space and remind himself that nobody out there actually _cared_ about what you did or who you were expected to be.

In those moments the world was hollow, and he touched the sky.

Jim didn’t expect an outburst of verbal excitement, but Spock was silent for too long, and Jim probed gently, “You okay?”

“I have been… deprived of all of this,” the reply was.

Nothing else had to be said. If raised in proper environment, Spock would be a hotshot scientist by now. Jim felt a rising wave of anger at Spock’s caretaker – something that has become a regular occurrence.

“Well, I bet it won’t stay this way for long. You’ll be in outer space faster than you can flip your caretaker the bird. You are incredible at learning – I mean, you understood the inner workings of a tricorder from the first try.”

Spock contemplated the words for a moment.

“I believe the term is ‘hypocrisy’, Jim.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You speak nothing but praise about my ambiguous future, and yet when asked about _your_ possible future with Starfleet, you responded that you cannot redeem yourself.”

“We’ve got sort of different situations, don’t you think?” Jim laughed humourlessly. “You’re a victim of circumstances, and I… I’ve dug my own grave. A debaucher with no future. I know what everyone around me thinks, so it’s best to give them what they want, including Starfleet; it’s easier this way. That’s why I joined Baran’s mercenary gig; I guess that’s what was always expected of me. Even in school I was always told nothing good will come out of me, I would never be worthy of my mother or father. Sure, to be bold and move against the stream is great, but sometimes you just gotta accept whatever’s thrown at you.”

“I was under the impression you do not enjoy the easy way.”

Jim shrugged. “Sometimes it’s not worth trying.”

“That is not what I see,” Spock said, looking at him without blinking. “I see keen intellect, bravery, strong will, and sense of moral. Your past may influence you, but it does not define you.”

The eye contact held on, creating an invisible string tying them together.

“Thanks,” Jim said eventually, tone soft. “For believing in me. You are the first.”

“Doctor McCoy believes in you,” Spock objected. “Cadets Sulu and Chekov have spoken highly of your intellect despite knowing you for a short amount of time. I presume the correct colloquialism is, ‘do not sell yourself short’. ”

Jim rested his forehead against the cool glass, savouring the moment and letting the coolness of the glass seep into him, simply enjoying the presence of another person by his side. It was a perfect memory, even better than the first one, the one he knew he would recollect for years in times of need; the only thing that would make it more perfect was being able to slip an arm around Spock’s shoulders and making him rest his head on top of Jim’s.

Those were just words of support from a single person, but at the moment they seemed grander than the planet beneath them.

And the world wasn’t hollow anymore.

***

The main hall of the hub was a concentration of visitors if all imaginable races, constantly beeping automates selling tickets, chatter in the tiny cafés, and the barely audible background tune, the twenty-second century classic ‘elevator music’ genre.

“Well,” Jim slapped his hands together, “Let’s see where destiny takes us.”

Spock raised a sceptical eyebrow.

“Destiny, like the ‘gut feeling’, is merely an imaginary concept created to justify questionable actions.”

“What, if not destiny, has brought us together?”

“Your curiosity and expertise in computer technologies,” Spock deadpanned.

Jim breathed out a laugh and ducked into an alcove where one of the many giant displays showing flight schedules and the starbase time was.

“We got twenty-two hours before Bones comes for our heads, plenty of time to travel somewhere.”

“Are you planning on accompanying me?”

“Of course I do!” Jim said cheerfully, even though the credits in his account protested his mood, especially after all the spending they did in San Francisco. Why did he have to show off and order seven different dishes in the restaurant when none of them could eat that much? “We have just enough money to go to, say, Alpha Centauri system? I’m pretty sure we can find something interesting there, like the Zefram Cochrane museum – you know, the warp core inventor? He used to live there for a while, they turned his house into a living museum – I bet you’d get a kick out of it.”

“I do not wish to be kicked in any circumstances,” Spock said, “however, if you meant it as an idiom for enjoyment, I believe seeing any system would be informative for I have not visited any of them previously.”

Jim smiled. Of course, if it depended on him, he would’ve taken Spock somewhere beautiful, like the legendary crystal caves of Ghitli, or the dancing lights on Thall, which was said to be the wonder of the universe, or—

“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation,” a voice said suddenly right above Jim’s ear, and he spun around – only to see J, the bartender from Riverside, masterfully blending into the environment in her blacks and pinks.

Jim’s first reaction was to draw a fist, and J took a precautionary step back, raising a hand in a sign of peace.

“You ratted us out to Baran! What are you doing here?” Jim demanded, as Spock appeared by his side, calm, but obviously ready to fight if needed. J eyed him warily.

“Yes, okay, you got me,” she said, “I’m his intelligencer – but I’m not here to tell on you, I swear.”

“Thought you were a bartender?” Jim asked, body still tense like a string and ready to pounce if she should make a threatening move. He could already guess the answer to that question: tending a bar full of shifty customers most likely of a criminal background is exactly the job for an intelligencer; drunk people shared information all too willingly.

“It’s useful for eavesdropping,” J confirmed his suspicions. “I’m not just a bartender, I have many personas. Some say I could’ve become an actress in another life; I can be anyone I want – I can even be a Jim Kirk, want a demonstration?”

“Why are you here?” Jim repeated.

“For information, of course!” J made a graceful gesture circling the hub, but kept her eyes on Spock. “Bars and starbases are gold mines in this, all this unfiltered chatter… Well, this, and also smuggling. Being a spy doesn’t exactly pay the bills the way I want, not after I was booted from my dream job.”

Unexpectedly, J’s hand reached out towards Spock’s waist – Spock tensed, ready to flee – and in a span of a second Jim swiped in between them, grasping her wrist tightly.

“Keep your hands to yourself, pal,” Jim said lowly.

“Protective boyfriend type, I see?” J’s eyebrows rose, but she lowered her hand. And if Jim didn’t correct her assumption, that’s only because he didn’t want to interrupt her. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, all I’m interested in is this beautiful sash. May I take a closer look?”

Seemingly finding no logical reasons to refuse, Spock untied the sash, handing it over.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” J repeated, running her fingertips over the silky texture of the embroidery. Jim has never encountered his kind of fabric, but it was obviously very expensive and very durable, having survived their adventures. He was familiar with the greedy light in the eyes of the people like J, and knew exactly what she was about to offer.

“Like I said, I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation, particularly the part about not having enough credits to go further than Alpha Centauri… I’ll give you, hmmm,” she feigned hesitation, “two thousand credits for the sash. The galaxy is all yours.”

Spock considered her for a few moments, and finally said, “The price you offer is seventy-six times higher than the average prices I saw in the clothing store for this kind of item. Explain why.”

“This, obviously,” J gestured at the intricate swirly designs on the fabric. With no reaction from Spock, she added, “You, uh, must know what I mean, right?”

“I do not. That is why I asked you to clarify the meaning of your words.”

J twirled the end of the sash, letting it slip between her fingers as if it was made out of water.

“...Like I said, it’s beautiful. The ornaments are clearly handmade, an artwork,” she said. “So, do we have a deal?”

A warning bell was going on in Jim’s head since the moment he saw her – but right now he couldn’t find any fault in her words, this was a natural conversation with a smuggler who has stumbled across a desired item.

So Jim looked at Spock reluctantly, saying, “She’s right about the credits, if you’re wondering. The decision is yours.”

Jim expected hours-long pondering – perhaps he was projecting his own behaviour; after all, he would’ve never given up something important of his, like the pin, easily – but Spock only nodded once.

“I agree to your proposition.”

“You sure?” Jim asked immediately. “You said it was a gift, it must be valuable to you.”

“An ability to travel is far more valuable,” Spock replied, and J smiled confidently, her hand already deep inside her pockets, extracting a credit chip.

“That’s practically my life motto,” she said and dropped the chip into Spock’s extended hand – and if Jim wasn’t vigilantly watching the exchange, he would’ve missed the deliberate lightning-quick touch of Spock’s fingers against the woman’s palm.

“She is lying.”

J’s hand stilled, and she gaped – and Jim tensed, not knowing what’s going on, but trusting Spock – so he grabbed the woman’s wrist again in a flash.

“Haha, what? I’m no-”

“What’s she lying about?” Jim demanded.

“I do not know,” Spock said, inspecting J from head to toe. “Her mood is excited, apprehensive, and fearful, most likely of being discovered.”

Jim’s grip tightened; J could probably escape if she wanted to – she was taller and older, and he’s learned not to underestimate skinny people – but her memories of Spock’s nerve pinch were obviously still clear.

“Tell us the truth!” Jim demanded, and Spock rounded them in an expression of silent support when suddenly an authoritative voice asked, “Do you require assistance with the individuals that cause you trouble?”

Jim released J and turned around, expecting to see a Federation security officer who came to protect J from supposed assault (he couldn’t deny that’s what it looked like to an onlooker) – and his mouth fell open when he saw a group of none other but Vulcans paused in the midst of passing the alcove, all burying their not-curious gazes in Spock. Jim briefly wondered if it was weird for them – with so little Vulcans left they all probably knew each other. He wondered if he should have told Spock to pull the hood lower.

Apparently, all of them were a part of an independent research group; all of them wore unfamiliar uniforms and identical pins with a lopsided triangle.

The leader of the group, who asked the question, was a small woman with a stance worthy of an Admiral. Her eyes lingered on the sash that quickly disappeared inside J’s coat, and then back at Spock, expecting an answer.

With meant only one thing: it was time for Jim to divert everyone’s attention on himself.

“No, no, not at all,” he said loudly, raising his hands. “We were just talking, that’s all.”

He cast a glance at Spock to gauge his reaction – to his utter surprise, Spock stared at the young woman so intently it was surprising his eyes didn’t start shooting lasers.

Now that Spock was in presence of other Vulcans, Jim was stricken anew with just how much like them he _looked_.

That is, compared to other species. In actuality, there were plenty of differences too that were not the result of a different upbringing: like smoother facial features, a bigger nose and a sharper jaw, and a more delicate curve of the ear.

Perhaps Spock really wasn’t Vulcan; after all, all Vulcans Jim’s ever seen had black blank eyes, not brown expressive ones. Maybe Spock was his own species Jim’s discovered.

“The question was not addressed to you,” the leader said, displeasure apparent.

“We are well,” Spock replied – and was it Jim’s imagination, or did he sound particularly numb?

“I see. If there is no trouble present,” the woman said, gaze moving from Spock back to Jim, “we cannot afford wasting time on your case.”

“Trouble? Wouldn’t dream about it,” Jim shot her a smile that brought no reaction. Perhaps Vulcans were just immune to him as a kind.

With a respectful nod to Spock, fingers parted in a ta’al, and a last suspecting look at Jim, the leader and the group departed. Jim forced a smile to continue tugging his lips till they disappeared out of sight, and then whipped around to continue interrogating J – only to find the spot she was standing on glaringly empty.

That sneaky bastard.

Jim twisted his head left and right, but they were in the middle of a busy, noisy, crowded hall, she could’ve gone anywhere—

That very moment, Jim’s communicator pinged, and he ripped it out of his pocket to see a new message on his Trindlr profile (an ultimate monstrosity of a social platform created after Tinder, Tumblr, and Grindr merged in 2056) he used for secret communication with Baran and various mercenaries.

This one was from the unknown contact, and Jim swiped it open.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**J:** Because it was a genuine Vulcan sash, you idiots.

Jim cursed.

“Spock, why didn’t you stop her?! Don’t you want to know what she was lying about? ...Spock?”

Finally, Jim raised his head to look at Spock – who was standing still as a statue.

“I believe I am ill,” he said finally, and Jim dropped the communicator back into the pocket immediately, concern wiping out all the other emotions.

“What’s wrong?”

Crap, crap, crap. They should’ve stayed with McCoy at the hospital.

“I am experiencing memory lapses,” it was obviously a difficult thing for Spock to confess. “The leader of the expedition had a familiar face; however, I cannot remember where I saw her.”

Jim exhaled in relief.

“Oh, don’t worry, that’s not memory lapses, this happens all the time – maybe she just looked like someone else, or you saw her on TV and forgot—”

“You do not understand,” Spock interrupted, the line between his brows deepening. “Once I see or learn something, I cannot forget it, this is the way my memory functions. I know I have seen that woman, but I do not know where; this is unnatural.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Jim said gently. “Sure, that’s how it worked when you were staying in that house, seeing literally nothing, but you had an overdose of information today, you could’ve easily missed something. I bet it’s just déjà vu.”

Jim has read about eidetic memory and how it was another trademark Vulcan feature; Spock must’ve read about it during researching his race in the hospital and adopt it as something he had to follow without a fault. Honestly, Spock couldn’t be expected to uphold any of the standards he set for himself, and especially those set by society.

Spock didn’t look convinced at the slightest, but he inclined his head anyway. “Perhaps.”

Jim communicator pinged again, several times in a row, and he opened it to see Baran’s name appear on the screen. Jim groaned inwardly; of course by reading the J’s message he has opened the app that conveniently placed “online” next to his username. 

Chat with: Baran_23, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**Baran_23:** Kirk  
  
**Baran_23:** Im really not surprised you survived that  
  
**Baran_23:** But you wont stay alive for long  
  
**Baran_23:** I will kill you Kirk you fucking jackass  
  
**Baran_23:** You stole the stone!!!!!  
  
**Baran_23:** Where are you  
  
**Baran_23:** Reply!!!  
  
**Baran_23:** I can see your online  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** sry been busy being a jackass  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** ttyl  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** xxx

A flurry of furious messages swamped the screen, but Jim just snapped the communicator shut. What could he say, he loved shoving sticks into sleeping dragons’ eyes. The guy didn’t get to complain in any case: Jim still had some phantom pains from the phaser wound.

“What was that?” Spock asked.

“Nothing,” Jim stuffed the communicator deeper into the jacket.

“That was not ‘nothing’, that was a text message. I wish to know its contents,” Spock said, a hint of a demanding tone.

“Why waste time on that when we can choose a planet to go to?” Jim hoped his smile would charm Spock out of eyeing the communicator stubbornly – not that it worked any of the other times. “You have the money, so it’s your choice!”

Spock gave him a look that clearly said ‘Don’t think you’re getting out of this conversation’ but thankfully dropped the topic.

“You are more knowledgeable in the aspects of space, it would be wise to let you choose.”

“Nope!” Jim said brightly – Spock must be wondering what the hell he was so happy about, but Jim had the _greatest_ idea. “You go to the kiosk, pick any planet from the list.”

“As I have informed you earlier,” there it was, a wisp of irritation, “the names of the planets are meaningless to me.”

“That’s what makes it so great! Your pick will be completely random – let’s see where destiny takes us!”

Spock made a sound that was his version of a huff.

“Your reasoning is nonsensical. Moreover, a truly random choice is possible only with a computer, mine would still be influenced by external factors,” he paused for a moment. “Although I am knowledgeable enough in the computer algorithms to make an attempt in imitating them...”

“I’m sure you’d make a splendid computer, Spock,” Jim said, which caused a corner of Spock’s mouth to twitch – something Jim’s already learned to recognize as a sign of amusement – which, in return, caused Jim to beam brighter.

With another huff-like sound, Spock headed to the terminal, the credit chip ready, and Jim’s gaze followed him, grin on his face relaxing into a fond smile without his conscious thought.

Ensuring Spock was too preoccupied to notice what Jim was doing, he flipped the communicator open, ignored Baran’s messages (who, apparently, has opened a thesaurus and was now calling him every word for idiot), and opened the one from J. 

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**J:** Because it was a genuine Vulcan sash, you idiots.  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** are you certain?  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** who are you anyway?  
  
**J:** You can call me Lester ;)

Lester was a relatively common last name. Many first names began with the letter J.

But that was the case where too many coincidences were forming a pattern.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**J:** Yes, I'm certain. I know a priceless item when I see one.  
  
**J:** How come your Vulcan doesn't know the true value of Vulcan artefacts?

Jim replied nothing. Lester was silent for a few seconds, and then—

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**J:** He is an abnormally powerful telepath to read my mind through such a quick touch.  
  
**J:** I'd even say it's some kind of mutation.  
  
**J:** Or sickness.  
  
**J:** What's wrong with him?

Jim gripped the communicator so tight it would’ve cracked if it wasn’t made of metal, worry churning his insides. After all, while he was far from an expert on telepathic species, he has never heard about someone being able to download full information from a person’s mind with a millisecond-long touch.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** how do you know this number?  
  
**J:** ;)

Anxiety grew. Jim didn’t mind running and hiding, he was used to it, but if people like Baran and Lester took interest in Spock – he couldn’t allow him to be in danger. Jim himself never passed an opportunity to engage in a dangerous game, those were the most fun, but Spock— Sure, he could stand up for himself, if the bar fight was any indication… But those games would eat him alive; there was a new surge of protectiveness rising in Jim’s chest.

Crap, Jim really hoped Spock’s association with him wouldn’t bring him any trouble.

For all Spock’s praise for his knowledge that allegedly made him a good guide Jim _knew_ he was the worst choice at being seen as the prime example of humanity. Perhaps McCoy was right and he should have contacted the authorities instead of indulging in his selfish desire to— To what?

To have an adventure? To sate the craving for the touch of life he would never ever have? To imagine having someone to share the universe with, someone who understands, and is interested in warp engines and stars, and plays chess, and seems just perfect in every way? To fantasize about a person like this feeling the same way about him?

Yeah, right. So realistic.

They had a fucking candlelight dinner.

He closed his eyes briefly. Inevitability was indeed the saddest concept. 

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** stay away from him, or i will end you

With this, he closed the communicator with a full intention never to pick it up again today. Both of them would be safer off-planet. If they stayed far away from the mercenaries and security and grumpy doctors they could have one last shining perfect moment together.

After all, the day was not over yet.

Just at that moment Spock approached, and Jim smiled at him as if his mind hasn’t just taken another long melancholy trip.

“I have acquired us tickets,” Spock said, showing two plastic chips.

“A round trip, I hope?” Jim half-joked, and was met with Spock’s flat version of a glare, who didn’t dignify it with a reply. “Don’t tell me where, I want it to be a surprise!”

Spock exhaled shortly, “I must inform you that I strongly object to your reasoning and do not understand the fascination you have with so-called ‘intrigue.’ ”

“Oh,” Jim waved his hand, “trust me, once you experience it, you’ll understand. Perhaps all you need is a fresh perspective.”

Another short exhale. Jim had a feeling by the end of the trip Spock would learn how to fully sigh and would employ this ability on a daily basis. Actually, it was a pleasing realization – it would mean Spock would have a part of Jim in him even after the trip ends – and that’s where Jim gave himself a mental slap. He should stop thinking about them in terms of ending soon, it would only put a damper on his good mood, especially since he didn’t feel this light for a long time. It was a perfect wish fulfilment, something his nature always wanted most: adventure and discovery, traverse into the unknown and meeting whatever is throws at him with a head raised high, a wide smile, and confidence that whatever happens in the end he would come out a winner.

“You seem concerned,” Spock said in another display of insightfulness.

Jim shook his head, smiling. “It’s nothing, really.” When Spock’s questioning eyebrow climbed up, he repeated, quieter. “It’s nothing.”

Not at all convinced, Spock nevertheless nodded and didn’t ask further. Honestly, it was endearing when he did this, believing Jim against all odds. If they served on a starship together, they’d make a fearsome duo – if they have such an understanding now, imagine what being a command team would do...

“Our shuttle leaves in fifty-two minutes,” Spock said instead. “If you have no objections I would prefer to spend the time observing the passengers.”

Jim smiled fondly again. Of course watching people would give more information than watching space out of a window.

They settled in one of myriads of cafés, staring at the various aliens, Spock occasionally asking about their species and planets or origin, and telling about the species he learnt about during his imprisonment. Yes, _imprisonment_ , there was no other word for it.

They didn’t see the group of Vulcans again – even though Jim was pretty sure Spock was waiting for them to appear – presumably, their shuttle has departed.

They saw many diplomats though, accompanied by Starfleet officers, who usually got the task of transporting ambassadors and delegations wherever they had to go. Today was the Memorial Day for Vulcan that coincided with official reopening of the VSA and a peace conference held on the colony, which meant many representatives from the Federation planets wanted to pay respects to the lost civilization, while many scientists were granted permission to enter the Academy that was denied to the outworlders for years. Spock and Jim tried to guess who the Earth diplomats were in the crowd of people, ultimately deciding that a stately woman wrapped in shawls and garments of alien fashion was definitely one of them. She was sitting in the café several tables away from them; speaking into her communicator quietly while going through her third cup of tea – obviously waiting for someone, perhaps the rest of her delegation. She left eventually and was replaced by a group of Orion teenagers who were laughing so loud Spock had to lean over the table so that Jim could hear him.

Eventually, with seventeen point four minutes to spare (thank you, Spock) they moved out towards the terminals. With Spock stopping to point out curious details on the hub’s design even Jim, who have been here a hundred times, saw some things in a new light.

Lester was at the edge of his mind all this time; for all he knew she could’ve already informed Baran of their whereabouts – now he would definitely think Jim was about to run off with the stone.

And only after he saw a pair of uniformed officers moving through the crowd briskly, heading at the café they were minutes ago, he realized: Lester didn’t tell Baran. She told the Federation Security.

“Spock,” Jim said quietly, leaned forward to pull the hood lower over Spock’s eyebrows, and jerked his head sideways after meeting the dark eyes. With one sweeping look at their surroundings Spock understood the problem and straightened without a word, smoothly moving into the corridor that would lead them to the terminals; Jim followed, calmly, acting like just another passerby.

Once mixed with the crowd, their pace quickened; Spock’s purposeful stride and long legs carried him forward faster than Jim, who turned around to keep an eye on the threat, while continuing to walk backwards – which, on the second thought, wasn’t the brightest idea.

But he understood it far too late – only after colliding with someone, tripping on their clothes, ripping the fabric he grabbed on to, and falling down in the most undignified display.

Jim winced; it seemed falling on his ass has become a theme of the past two days.

Rubbing his backside, he looked up, and his eyes widened.

A torn thin shawl hang off a woman’s shoulder, her sleek hairdo messed up from the collision – the same woman they saw at the café, the Earth diplomat. Thankfully, she didn’t have any bodyguards ready to add more kicking to Jim’s ass, and she seemed nice enough to even offer a hand to pull him up.

“Are you hurt?” She asked, her expressive brown eyes concerned.

Jim blinked. The words were echoed.

Slowly, he looked sideways to see Spock four steps ahead of him, having just asked the same question.

Spock spared the woman a single quirk of an eyebrow and looked back at Jim with identical, although repressed, concern.

The woman openly stared at Spock.

Jim stared at both of them in turns.

But the security was close, and there was no time to spare.

“Yeah, yeah, I am; sorry, Ma’am,” he muttered hurriedly, while Spock was already heading to the lift that would take them to the Terminal C, and called after him, “Spock, wait!! I know a shortcut!”

He leaped towards him, and grabbed the end of his sleeve in a practised move to make him do a U-turn, the sharp motion sending the poncho flying around him and hood falling off his head.

The woman might have gasped and called after them, but Jim was already motioning Spock to get through a plain grey door the personnel used, and Spock was already raising a sceptical eyebrow at him, saying, “Might I point out that the last time you led us through the maintenance juncture we ended up almost drowning?”

Jim waved a dismissive hand, “That was an outlier. I don’t go dying every day,” he paused for effect and smirked. “I do it maybe like six times a week.”

He knew he didn’t imagine a brief flash of horror in Spock’s eyes – but it was gone as soon as it appeared.

“You are employing human tendency for exaggeration again,” he said.

“Who knows, Spock, who knows,” Jim winked at him – another action he knew Spock didn’t understand – and led them through the final brightly lit corridor to the sign saying Terminal C. “Besides, the most exciting trips always start with someone saying ‘I know a shortcut!’ ”

***

Between Jim’s stories and all the information he managed to study after being given access to the databanks, Spock has formed a rather solid opinion on what space travelling entailed, backed up with the aforementioned data.

That is why, although he would never admit it to anyone, he experienced something close to an emotion of disappointment upon seeing the shuttle that would take them to the planet Jim so illogically refused to learn the name of. It was small and obviously old, more like a hoverbus they saw in the city – for a moment Spock thought Jim was playing a practical joke on him, but his expression revealed the same disappointment. However, for the reason unknown, it disappeared once he looked at Spock and was replaced with a bright smile.

“Looks like we got a private shuttle,” he said, “how cool is that!”

With this, he ran to the shuttle’s entrance and banged on the metal surface of the door.

Spock didn’t consider the situation cool either literally or metaphorically, especially after the door swung open and their pilot appeared – haggard, twitchy, with receding reddish hair and a smile to rival Jim’s.

“Looks like someone’s eager to fly!” He exclaimed, glancing at his wristwatch. He gave Jim a fleeting once-over and a longer, more curious, to Spock.

“Yeah, can’t wait to get out there,” Jim said hurriedly, throwing a glance at the closed doors. “Any chance we can leave right now?”

“Sure, I don’t see why not,” the pilot said, making a swiping gesture to welcome them inside. “I’m Montgomery Scott, but ya can call me Scotty, everyone does. And you are?...”

“Jim,” Jim said, jumping inside the shuttle immediately. “And he is Spock.”

More curious staring. Spock scowled inwardly and moved past Scotty to inspect the insides of the shuttle: it looked much better on the inside but was still far from images if the starships Spock saw. The bridge had two chairs for the pilots, even though Scotty was the only one present; an opaque plastic barrier separated it from the passengers’ area which had only six seats and a large observation window with a small couch at its further end. The basic amenities like a replicator and a lavatory were also present.

“Where are the other passengers?” Spock asked.

“Oh, y’re the only ones,” a cheerful reply was. “You’ve no idea how excited I am, I’ve been piloting this shuttle for three months, and do ya know how many passengers I had? Zero!”

“See, Spock, we’re on an exclusive first class flight, the day just gets better and better,” Jim said. It was curious how many smiles could one man produce in a minute. “So how about that early departure, Scotty?”

While Spock didn’t have sufficient data to calculate the likelihood of the Federation Security catching up with them, he knew early departure would diminish their chances of being caught: the kiosk where the tickets were sold didn’t request their names, and Spock has never said the name of the planet aloud. The only person who saw them up close was the Earth diplomat Jim collided with – the one who looked at Spock with the most complicated expression he could never hope to decipher – but even she would have to spend time analysing the possible Terminals their shortcut could lead to.

Meanwhile, Scotty was settling into the pilot’s chair.

“Aye, aye, strap in,” he said and started the complicated procedure of manipulating the console to prepare for the departure. Choosing to sit in the passenger area instead of learning the fascinating process was simply impossible.

“I wish to sit here,” he said, lowering himself into the second pilot’s chair without waiting for a reply.

“Sure,” Scotty shrugged. “The rules are pretty bendable here... sorry, I have only two seats,” he told Jim, who begrudgingly strapped himself to the passenger’s seat.

Flicking the switch labelled ‘comm’, Scotty addressed the base, “Shuttlecraft Johnnie Walker requesting an early departure.”

“Request granted,” the dispatcher replied, Scotty started the engines, and the next moment the shuttle moved into the hangar bay; the hatch opened and they were swallowed by the endless darkness speckled with shining stars.

A snap of the safety belt resounded in the passengers’ area, and Jim appeared by Spock’s side, excited as if he was the one going into space for the first time.

Scotty glanced at him sideways.

“The rules may not be _that_ bendable. Ya’d better tie yourself to the seat, for yer own safety. JW is a lovely old lady, but even warp three is straining her. Ya may bump into something when we accelerate.”

“We’re about to go into warp,” Jim said, even though it didn’t explain his presence on the bridge. “You’re gonna love it, Spock. Let’s punch it, Mr. Scott!”

“Who are ya, my captain?” He grumbled, but judging by Jim’s smile, the words didn’t hold any malice.

“Maybe I am,” Jim replied, and then unnecessarily motioned Spock to look out of the window.

Without warning – perhaps for the dramatic effect beloved by humans – Scotty pushed the lever, the ship jerked forward, and Jim almost fell down again. Spock really wished he could grab his arm to steady him, but his hands were conditioned to stay still and ignore those desires; and then his attention was directed at the blackness of space that was now coloured in thin streaks of light the stars turned into.

“Beautiful, isn’t it.”

Even though Jim was staring at Spock, he deduced that Jim was referring to the stars.

“The Doppler’s effect indeed suits the description I learned from the texts.”

Of course, it was beautiful, Spock did have an aesthetic sense, after all – but for him a more important thing was the ability to visit the planets orbiting every single one of those stars.

“First time flying, eh?” Scotty asked.

“Kind of,” was Jim’s reply – Spock appreciated the vagueness; the details would only lead to unwanted questioning.

“I wish I could be as excited about it as you are,” Scotty sighed without looking away from the console, “I’m not supposed to be a pilot! I was an Engineer on a Constitution class starship, mind ya!”

“What happened?”

“Got demoted for experimenting with transwarp beaming,” Scotty shrugged, as Spock leaned closer to catch every word. Transwarp beaming sounded incredibly interesting. “Got my theory up and ready, wanted to show it to Admiral Archer, took his beagle to be the test subject, called in a conference...” He trailed off.

“And?” Jim urged.

“And I’ve got no idea where the beagle’s atoms went,” Scotty replied with a guilty look. “So they demoted me and gave me a choice – to sit in an outpost in some hellhole, or pilot a bloody shuttle nobody ever hires. So here I am,” he gestured widely. “Thought it’d be more fun... We don’t get a lotta guests on—“

“Nope, don’t tell!!” Jim interrupted excitedly. “I don’t know what planet are we going to visit, it’s a surprise!”

“Oh, an adventure! Exciting,” Scotty sang, focusing on the readings on the screen. “Alright-o, my lips are zipped.”

Spock let out a tiniest exhale. It wasn’t a sigh if nobody heard it.

“I should have consulted you on the matter of picking a planet to visit.”

“Are you having a _gut feeling_ about this being a bad idea, Mr. Spock?” Jim asked, tone playful, leaning an arm on the back of Spock’s seat. His knee bumped into the armrest, and Spock’s instincts screamed at him to flee from the danger of being touched; but he didn’t move.

“No, it is a simple logical conclusion,” Spock replied patiently. “A tiny shuttle, no other passengers, a pilot with a criminal record—”

“Hey, watch it!” Scotty exclaimed.

“—all of this indicates the alternative I suggested was the more advantageous one.”

Jim’s smile grew wider. His reactions were out of any realm of rationality.

“Well, _my_ gut feeling tells me it’s going to be great. It’s destiny, Spock, thought we agreed on that!”

“We did not, in fact, agreed on anything. I stated that destiny is a superstitious concept that did not exist in reality.”

Jim smiled even wider. Spock wondered whether there was a limit to it, or if his lips would just continue to grow until splitting his face. This was an utterly illogical idea going against everything he learned about human anatomy; but then again, everything about Jim was illogical.

Spock closed his eyes briefly. Two days submerged in endless stream of new information and emotions coming from dozens of new species, and especially from Jim, who made him _feel_ , and all with no meditation to sort this data out were really affecting him. His teachers would be so disappointed.

“Can you prove it?” Jim asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Can you prove that destiny doesn’t exist?”

“No,” Spock replied slowly. “I suppose the only method of proving its falseness is observing the ways future changes according to the alterations of certain present events, which is something not currently possible.”

“So isn’t it more scientific to assume something _can_ exist, if we don’t have any proof for or against it? Like space travel, you know,” Jim expression softened. “Maybe we as a species just haven’t reached the point of uncovering this mystery yet.”

“I admit this is a logical approach,” Spock said, once again admiring the dynamics of Jim’s mind that could produce a very logical conclusion – as well as something like the whooping sound he’s just made, throwing his arms in the air.

“I can’t believe I’ve just made a Vulcan agree that destiny is logical-”

“The possibility of existence of destiny,” Spock corrected immediately.

“-I should mark this day in my calendar!”

“Ya lot are weird, ya know that?...” Scotty muttered absent-mindedly.

“Do you have a manual for this ship, Mr. Scott?” Spock asked, but as soon as Scotty took out a padd, Jim wrinkled his nose.

“Is this how you want to spend time, reading the manual for this bucket of nails?”

“ _Excuse me?!_ ” Scotty sounded positively murderous, drawing himself into an intimidating pose despite his less than impressive height. Spock glanced at the console worriedly; he could only assume Scotty set the ship on autopilot. “I’ll let ya know that once I punched a Klingon’s _face_ for calling my ship a garbage scow – not this ship of course, the one I served as an Engineer on. But I could’ve made this one into a beauty so gorgeous even squeamish lads like you wouldn’t find a single fault with her… I admit she’s far from a perfect condition now...”

Scotty broke into a long-winded story about trying to persuade Starfleet to let him upgrade the shuttle for what he claimed to be a million times (Spock doubted his assessment was truthful), only to be denied in punishment.

Meanwhile, Jim was watching Spock as became his habit lately – perhaps out of concern for his adjustment, an admirable but unnecessary notion.

“Fascinating suggestions, Mr. Scott,” Spock said, passing him the padd. “I would appreciate if you transferred them into this padd for a detailed study along with the manual.”

Scotty looked pleased at the proposition and copied the files readily, while Jim whispered in his ear, his warm breath making Spock tense, both in reflexive fear of contact – and in something new. Anticipation.

Jim seemed the most capable in making strange sensations appear in his body and mind. Strange, dangerous. Emotions that must be avoided at all cost.

...So that’s what T’Mira meant when she said there would come a time when he would have to exercise all potential for control in his disposal.

“I know you kiss him up only so that he won’t chuck us out of an airlock after I called his ship a bucket.”

Spock turned his head just enough to make eye contact with Jim. Even with inches between their faces neither of them moved away.

“Killing passengers would be improper conduct for a pilot,” Spock replied. “As well as kissing them.”

Jim smiled in that comfortable way, as if they knew each other for years, and Spock unlocked the safety belt and stepped away to get the padd back from Scotty.

 _I shall not feel,_ he told himself. _I shall not want._

***

The shuttle didn’t have much entertainment, but Scotty was more than happy to let Jim compose a playlist of Earth music he considered imperative for Spock’s introduction to human culture. What a surprise it was when “Don’t Stop Me Now” blasted in the speakers, and Jim sang the first few lines (off-tune and on the top of his lungs, in a way that used to get McCoy complaining about his ears withering every time), and pointed at Spock to continue, expecting him to be utterly confused at what he wanted him to do – and but then Spock, in his monotone voice, said, “ _Cause I am having a good time_ ”, finishing the verse.

Jim stared at his with his mouth open for three entire seconds.

“I’d love to see you play!” Jim exclaimed after Spock revealed he has made a transcription of this song for a lyre. Seriously, was there an end to how many talents a single man could have? But then again, being stuck at home, Spock had to search for hobbies to occupy his spare time. Besides, Jim bet he looked great with a lyre: he could see the image in his mind’s eye – cheek pressed to the old carved wood and fingers plucking the strings gently.

“It is unfortunate I do not have the instrument at the moment,” Spock replied. “I have not had a chance to have an audience for my performances yet, and I would have appreciated you becoming my first.”

Of course, it was too optimistic to hope Scotty would have an unexpected stock of lyres of his shuttle, and Jim sighed, mourning the lost opportunity to witness the image he created in great detail.

At first Jim thought it was pretty awesome that Spock knew the classical music from the 21st century just like him – it was a rarity to meet a person with preferences like his, in 2253 everyone was a fan of new wave electro and whatever that Deltan band was called; but then he realized what connotations this had. The only music Spock was allowed to listen to was the one produced in pre-warp civilisations, because otherwise he would’ve heard the space travelling being mentioned.

They also took a crash course from Scotty on replicated Scottish cuisine when it was time for dinner, and Jim chucked down a litre of coffee – he wasn’t about to waste a minute of their journey sleeping when he could play a couple more chess matches with Spock on a padd app.

Later, when the conversation between the three of them was lulled into silence, Jim and Spock were on the couch facing the observation window – a spot Jim picked specifically to observe the stars flying by; and that’s why when he looked at Spock he felt dismay.

“Spock, you’re not watching!” Jim accused, but Spock only lifted his head to glance at him briefly and returned to devouring Scotty’s plans to upgrade the shuttle.

“It is a pleasing view,” he said, “however, I would rather spend the time reading.”

Jim sank into the couch, trying not to look too disappointed; he got it, Spock’s idea of fun was different, and if he delivered enjoyment from reading the manual, so be it. Besides, he needed some rest after the emotional overdose he had received.

Staring at the stars and nebulas shifting in the endless blackness, Jim returned to fiddling with his communicator pointlessly, flipping it open and closed – so lost in thought that one snap of the lid caught his finger.

“Ouch!” He hissed, shaking his hand, and Spock looked up in alarm immediately.

“Are you injured?”

Jim wiggled his finger with a barely there red mark. “Terribly. Hey, how about you perform another meld to heal me?” He asked with a smile, but only a part of it was a joke. The smallest part. He really wanted Spock to feel at ease and be in his element again; and the thought of what a full meld could be like never left Jim’s mind.

Spock inspected him intently and saw right through the ruse.

“It is unnecessary to offer melding for my sake only,” he said flatly, returning to the padd.

“Who says it’s for your sake?” Jim hesitated before continuing. “Maybe I liked it. Maybe I want to know what it’s like to undergo it fully, without complications like bleeding and drowning.”

“Please do not lie, James, I have experienced what you did,” Spock answered. “You were afraid.”

Fear of others seemed to be the only thing Spock was truly afraid of. Of course, Jim knew a few carefully chosen words would do nothing to undo a lifetime of conditioning, but he had to say something.

“I was not afraid of _you_ , it was just general fear,” Jim leaned closer to him, throwing a hand over the back of the couch and turning to face him fully. “That happens sometimes when you’re certain you’re about to die.”

“Death is an inevitable biological process,” Spock said. “Fearing it is pointless.”

At least he was finally meeting his eyes. Jim considered it a positive development.

“Bones once said that fear of death is what keeps us alive.”

“He is a doctor, I concur to his assessment of methods of prolonging life,” Spock inclined his head, turning the padd off. “However, I would ask you to refrain from mentioning my agreement to him, I am afraid it would lead to... gloating.”

“Damn right,” Jim laughed shortly. “So, about that meld?...”

“Your injury is not lethal,” Spock rose from the couch. “I will ask Mr. Scott for a medkit.”

Well, that was what Jim should’ve expected after their last meld ended up with him doing a mental equivalent of slapping Spock.

Some time later Jim was forced to take a nap after all – because, apparently, _‘sleep was a human need’_ or something – he had a feeling if he didn’t agree Spock would pump him full of sedatives from Scotty’s medkit. Spock and McCoy would definitely become friends finding the common grounds in watching out for Jim’s health, they both seemed inclined to something Jim named “aggressive caring”. Luckily, somehow (he still didn’t understand how; it was a miracle) he managed to convince Spock humans needed only an hour for rejuvenation, and promptly distracted him from further questions by switching subjects to the extinction of humpback whales.

While that was going on, Spock asked Scotty to show him the transwarp beaming equations. In the haze of sleep, Jim heard them rattling on about transporter technology, and woke up after a particularly loud gasp and sound of a padd hitting the floor.

Jim straightened on the coach, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, to see Scotty with hands in his hair, looking at Spock with wide eyes.

“It is simply a logical conclusion,” Spock was saying. “The relativity of moving space and objects is the only variable you have not changed in all variations of your formulas, therefore, it might be the source of the problem.”

“This is ingenious!” Scotty exclaimed, picking up the padd and typing rapidly. “I think it might just work – I cannae believe I haven’t thought of this before!”

“Perhaps all you needed was a fresh perspective,” Spock said, making eye contact with Jim.

“Does it mean we get a discount next time we fly with you?” Jim yawned and stretched, thus officially announcing his entrance into the conversation.

“Are ya kidding me? I’ll be yer slave for all eternity for your help!” Scotty exclaimed. “Just ya wait until I rework my equations and show them to Admiral Archer, ya’ll be at my commendation ceremony in no time!”

“Did humanity not abolish slavery?...” Spock asked, perplexed. However, expression cleared in a second. “Ah, this was once again human tendency for exaggeration.”

“Indeed it was,” Jim said, “and being a slave is too big for us, we’ll settle on a smaller favour, like getting more pastries from your replicator.”

He proceeded to throw three biscuits into his mouth – they were delicious, nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. Scotty was a replicator magician and no one would convince him otherwise.

As Spock and Jim resumed their earlier positions on the couch, Jim’s fingers found the edge of the communicator inside his pocket again.

“I can’t stop thinking about J,” Jim muttered, unsure if he should even bring her up.

“Uninterrupted focus on one topic may not be beneficial for the health of the human mind,” Spock replied, hand frozen next to a padd he wanted to retrieve. “Why not?”

Jim worried his lower lip with his teeth. “It’s just... humans have this expression, _don’t put all your eggs in one basket_ , meaning don’t put all your resources, like knowledge, in one person. That’s why all mercenary groups have multilayered systems where only the ones on top know the names of everyone in the chain. I didn’t know Baran had an intelligencer, for example. And of course, I wasn’t allowed to know who wanted the stone. But she knows too much; she saw us in Iowa, recognized me, told Baran, now she knows we’re in the hub and told the Security. She could tell someone else. Someone who is interested in migration of the stone.”

“You think she knows the buyer personally.”

“I do, yes,” Jim stroked the communicator again. “Or even if she doesn’t – she knows someone who does. I know the criminal world, it’s impossible to work alone there. Everyone’s connected.”

Eyes fixed on the communicator-shaped bump in Jim’s pocket, Spock took the padd after all.

“Telling anyone about your supposed desire to take personal possession of the resonator would result in her being blamed for not preventing your escape, therefore, it would be irrational to do so.”

This was delivered with calm confidence, as if Spock was inside Lester’s head – briefly, Jim wondered whether that really was the case – and even though he was far from relaxed, Jim remembered his initial plan not to spoil the trip, and didn’t push further, simply saying, “Yeah, I suppose.”

***

“What is the standard procedure for people in situations similar to mine?” Spock asked later, when they caught a moment to sit next to an observation window, no padds in sight – just to enjoy the company. They have moved the couch so close their knees brushed the glass.

“Rehabilitation, I think,” Jim said, remembering McCoy’s suggestions about therapy. He agreed with him, of course; as much as he didn’t like hospitals in general, he knew this time he should defer to the opinion of a professional. “They’ll ask you how you feel every day and what you want to talk about. Text me if you ever need tips on how to avoid the questions,” he shrugged. “Or ask Bones.”

“You think we will not see each other after this,” Spock went straight to the carefully masked core. “I do not see why this will not be possible.”

“I’m a repeat offender. A ‘genius repeat offender,’ ” he wiggled his fingers in air quotes, “as the Riverside reporters used to call me before they grew tired and switched to juicier topics. You can’t be seen mingled with likes of me.”

“What are you going to do after we return to Earth?”

Jim threw his head against the back of the couch.

“Travel maybe. I’ve always wanted to go to space. Not to sit in the captain’s chair necessarily, although that would’ve been the fulfilment of every fantasy, but just to escape,” Jim gestured at the window. Space always called for him, and being among the stars was so much better than being stuck on any planet. He sighed, staring at his reflection in the dark glass. “Frankly, I don’t know what I want. Going to Risa – well, that was like a default dream, you know, that’s what everyone’s _supposed_ to want, to be rich and have no responsibilities. They used to tell me my father sacrificed his life to save mine, how dare I waste it. And I always replied, my life doesn’t belong to my dead father or my genius mother or anyone else. But that’s not a right thing to think, is it?” He sighed again, shaking his head at the unexpectedly spilled out monologue. “Sometimes I just _don’t know_ what to do and where to go.”

Spock was silent for a while – not that Jim expected him to say anything at all. He didn’t have to, he had enough troubles on his own to add Jim’s to the pile; that’s why Jim was surprised when Spock finally spoke.

“I wish I knew how to make you feel better, Jim,” he said simply, genuinely. “I _want_ you to feel better.”

Now that was a feat nobody could ever achieve. The only things that could make him feel better where space, danger breathing down his neck, and—

“Don’t worry,” he replied quietly. “You already do.”

And it was true: Spock’s soothing presence and quiet compassion, along with the most beautiful background in the world made the words spoken in the space between them blossom like a secret healing.

He was always overcome by feelings of melancholy on his birthday, although he was never the one to wallow in self-pity – it wasn’t a productive pastime – but they were always there, following around and showing their ugly heads when he least expected it.

“You were right about destiny,” Jim said, forehead pressed to the window, watching the stars swish by. The glass was cold. Refreshing. “About it being just a fantasy we create ourselves. I argued with you for the sake of arguing… It’s just— so great to _believe_ , to be certain that yes, your life may suck now, but just you wait and everything will be fine, because you’re destined for greatness.”

His breath left a damp patch on the cool glass.

Turning his head, he found brown eyes fixed on him.

“Perhaps,” Spock murmured, “today can be the day we both indulge in believing.”

Jim held his gaze for several long moments.

“You must be surprised to see me so different,” he said finally, quiet. Spock paid him so many compliments before, but they were for another Jim, the happy-go-lucky one. Every time people who tried to get close cracked his façade, they ended up disappointed – except for people like McCoy, too full of their own problems to be upset over this.

“No,” Spock said simply. “You forget about the emotional transference that occurred between us. I sensed the depth and layers of your emotions – I have already known about this part of you.”

“Yeah, right,” Jim said, voice embodiment of scepticism. In that case the only reason Spock didn’t leave him must’ve been because he considered searching for another guide wasteful. Why else would a person – any person, not just a Vulcan who denounced all emotionality – choose continuous exposure to it?

“Yes, right,” Spock echoed, one eyebrow climbing up. Jim offered him a weak smile.

“I don’t know what to believe in anymore,” his finger traced a mindless pattern on the dump patch. “It’s nice to believe in destiny, all this stuff, but… it’s stupid, isn’t it? If destiny is real, then I’m destined to live without my parents and friends. What good is there?” He huffed out a laugh, realizing full well how silly he sounded, verbalizing his feelings on the matter for the first time. “How can you even believe in something and think it’s stupid at the same time?”

“I base my beliefs on proved facts, that is why the concept is foreign to me,” Spock said. “You base yours on possibilities. You take risks.”

“But what option is better? I choose risks, but it always promises so much disappointment,” Jim laughed bitterly, turning towards Spock fully and bringing his knees up. “But don’t tell anyone, or my reputation of a risk-taker who always wins against all odds is ruined.”

“I will not tell,” Spock paused. “The truth is – I do not know a definite answer to any of the questions you bring up.”

Jim shook his head, resting his chin on the knees.

“Look at us,” Jim flicked a hand in the space between them. “Birds of a feather.”

“Birds?”

“We are similar,” Jim explained, gaze travelling back to the window and the stars wheezing past. “Not knowing a thing about what’s going on around us.”

Spock met his eyes in the reflection.

“The universe is ever expanding, making new creations from dust every second. It is impossible to know everything.”

Jim smiled despite everything, the melancholy still there, but now, surprisingly, taking on a lighter undertone.

“You know, the more I see the more I realize – nobody _actually_ knows anything. Everyone just bullshits their way through life and sometimes when they are successful they put on a crown and tell their stories, inspiring others into thinking you can accomplish everything if you set your mind to it – and nobody ever knows the truth behind their achievements,” he glanced at Spock, half-joking. “This is the moment you reassure me and say our story will not be a loser one.”

“I cannot predict the future, Jim,” Spock said, apologetic, “nor am I capable of connecting with your emotions to provide reassurance.”

“Like I said. You are doing great so far.”

“I will not lie to you,” Spock said stubbornly, and Jim smiled.

“I know. That’s why I like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Uh,” Jim’s brows furrowed as he tried to figure out what was there to possibly misunderstand. “What?”

Seeing his confusion, Spock explained, “I am a living being,” – although it didn’t explain a thing.

“Okay? I know you’re not an android.”

“You used the word ‘like’ to state your preference for me. I have become aware that humans tend to have a preference among the given options even if the situation does not require it, but as I have come to understand, it is usually done with things like colours or food or housing. Yet you state preference for… me.”

“I’m not equating you to housing, if that’s what you think,” Jim frowned – it couldn’t be the reason.

“I know. I mean...” There was an uncharacteristically long pause, it was obvious Spock struggled with verbalizing his thoughts (because how _do_ you find words something you know nothing about?). Finally, he gave up. “I do not understand.”

“You think liking people is illogical?”

But Jim already knew it wasn’t the case.

Everything was much simpler and much more horrifying – he simply didn’t understand how anyone could have any reason to like him.

“Perhaps,” Spock replied quietly. “I have not yet formed an opinion on the matter.”

Jim straightened from his curled up position and looked down at Spock’s hands lying on his lap loosely. No, this wasn’t how he wanted this to go.

He inhaled deeply.

“Look, Spock, it’s difficult to – explain it in words. But perhaps…” He gathered his resolve. “Can I touch you?”

He was nervous. He willingly offered the unthinkable: a free access to his thoughts and feelings; but this time it was what he wanted, and he tried to focus only on positive ones.

Spock simply stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, during which Jim considered apologizing and taking his words back, but then he slowly unfolded his hands and moved one forward smoothly, palm up. Carefully, Jim slid three fingers over Spock’s, wrapping the hand in a loose grip, thumb rubbing over the green veins once, not initiating any more movement.

The positive thoughts were surprisingly easy to focus on.

“You are not afraid of me…” Spock murmured, as if it was a marvel.

Reluctantly, he returned the same pressure Jim’s fingers had; and he felt as if his blood filled with tiny supernovas, and his heart was too big for his chest.

“Why would I be?” He whispered.

Jim cradled Spock’s hands between his own two, enjoying the warmth seeping into him from such a small amount of contact. He wondered if a kiss dropped in the centre of the palm would be welcomed or overwhelming – he didn’t risk it, instead caressing his fingers gently.

Spock’s free hand came up tentatively – and then brushed over Jim’s knuckles, and he thought he would turn into goo right there and then.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Jim said.

“Your movements are very pleasurable,” Spock replied quietly.

A touch telepath, he must’ve known what he’s doing and what Jim wanted; was it his way of showing consent? – no, he wouldn’t assume it; he would wait, give Spock all the first moves.

Between the heat of their skin and heat in their eyes, he could wait forever.

“Strap in, ETA is four minutes,” Scotty announced from the bridge cheerfully, cutting into the heavy silence like a knife into butter.

Spock stood up slowly, fingers trailing over Jim’s skin and finally dropping by his side; all without breaking eye contact.

Unable to look away, Jim followed; but even after they both looked forward in preparation for a descend, the invisible connection stayed.

“Let’s see where the destiny takes us,” Jim said quietly once the shuttle landed, and when Spock’s lips upturned, he knew it didn’t really matter so much anymore.

“Alright, you’ll need this,” Scotty said, throwing two bundles at them; Jim unwrapped one to see a thick long winter coat, a hat, a scarf, and gloves.

Okay.

They can have a lot of fun in winter; Jim could choose a happy thematic soundtrack, and teach Spock how to skate – not that he could skate himself, but still… Or they could build a logical snowman with each piece having a calculated weight and diameter...

Jim hesitated before putting the gloves on, kind of hoping Spock would let him touch his hand again; but he seemed set on stepping on the new ground as soon as possible and wrapped himself in layers quickly and efficiently.

Jim bounced slightly in the heavy waterproof winter boots, the sense of pure _adventure_ washing over him, any trace of melancholy now gone completely; and within minutes Scotty joined them by the exit, changed into his own gear.

Knowing just what they need, Scotty cleared his throat and flicked a hand over a sensor to make the door swish open dramatically. A wave of cold assaulted them immediately, and they followed Scotty onto the surface of the strange new world.

Jim squinted, shielding against bright white light and sharp specks prickling his face; and as soon as his eyes adjusted he looked over the landscape.

There was whiteness, whiteness, and more whiteness. Nothing but snow as far as the eye could see.

“Welcome to Delta Vega!” Scotty rubbed his hands. “See, I did want to tell ya at first, but then I thought maybe it was yer plan to see it anyway, with it being Vulcan’s ex-neighbour and all.”

“Now I understand why nobody wished to come here,” Spock said flatly.

“Damn straight,” Scotty sniffed, huffing out clouds of vapour. “Once Vulcan was sucked into a black hole, Delta Vega’s orbit shifted and all life was wiped out from the planet, the conditions became unbearable even for the snow beasts.”

Jim tried to roll a snowball, but the snow turned out to be just specks of ice, refusing to stick together.

“Is this an appropriate time to repeat your quote about this place defying our destiny?” Spock looked at him pointedly.

“Uh... What a great opportunity to learn about winter?” Jim suggested and was met with a passively exhaled puff of air.

Jim stepped onto the ground purposefully; it lacked the pleasant crunch of the fresh snow he loved so much. This one looked more white dust. A patch of ice suitable for skating was nowhere to be seen as well.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim watched Spock subtly for signs of displeasure. The universe must’ve really hated Jim; this was the worst place to possibly bring Spock to: no life, nothing to get new information from, uncomfortably cold for a desert dweller.

Lines on Spock’s forehead became more pronounced; he looked sullen, wrapped in the thick windproof coat, with his hat set low over the eyes and nose buried in the scarf, leaving only the tip and two green splotches on instantly frost-bitten cheeks; the kind of image that just asked for a couple of woolen blankets to be wrapped around him.

“Why are you staring at me?”

Okay, maybe Jim wasn’t as subtle as he would like.

“Your nose is green,” he said before he could stop his mouth.

“The constricted blood vessels in the parts of skin in contact with cold have dilated to allow the blood to flow,” Spock grumbled (that is, pitched his monotone slightly lower than usual). “Is it not common knowledge for humans?”

“Scotty, there must be something else here besides the snow,” Jim asked the man who’s just returned from the ship with a thermos full of hot tea.

“Well,” Scotty scratched his chin with a gloved hand, “there’s ice.”

Jim sighed. He was so glad Spock wasn’t human – a human would’ve showered him with a million I-told-you-so’s.

“There _is_ something else not far away,” Scotty continued. “An abandoned Starfleet outpost if y’re into that sort of thing.”

He pointed somewhere into the endless whiteness – their range of vision was limited to about ten meters, so of course they couldn’t see anything.

“We’re into anything that’s not standing still! Isn’t that right, Spock?” Jim asked cheerfully, pouring a cup of tea and pushing into Spock’s hands.

“I am in agreement,” Spock answered stiffly, taking a sip. One could only hope the thermos would be enough to warm him up.

The walk was rather short: Scotty led the procession, melting the snow with a portable burner, Spock followed, the thermos tucked under his coat for extra warmth, and Jim concluded, occasionally consulting with GPS to map their way. In about three minutes they could see the outline of the outpost, half-buried in white dust.

Once inside, it became obvious no living being was here for twenty years – as Scotty explained, ever since the planet’s ecosystem was ruined it became unfit for occupation, and the officers who were supposed to be on duty here were replaced by computers automatically reading the approaching ships’ registry numbers and entering them in the logs.

“It’s not exactly a tourist attraction, so no one comes here expect for independent Vulcan research vessels, and they have their own thing going on,” Scotty said, brushing the frost off a computer screen. “Hello, computer,” he greeted cheerfully, and Spock raised an eyebrow.

While Scotty became invested in scanning the systems, Jim motioned Spock to follow him to the platform a level above them. Apparently, before the orbit shift it was used to oversee the planet, but now that the air that perpetually suffused with ice particles, the only thing they could see was a white cliff nearby.

Jim leaned on the railing, and glanced at Spock sideways; he was pouring himself another cup of tea.

“So, what do you think?” He shifted closer until there was about five centimetres left between them.

“What topic should I tell you my thoughts about?”

Jim rolled his eyes, “You know what – the planet! It’s the first one you visited, what’s your opinion? Annoyed? Want to throw me over the railing into the snow?” He smiled slightly.

Spock, for his part, just looked confused. “What purpose would throwing you into the snow serve?... Furthermore, I must remind you that I am incapable of experiencing annoyance.”

“Disappointed then? Come on, I took you to this snowglobe, you must hate me.”

Spock cocked his head slightly, looking at him for the longest time. “Do you expect everyone to treat you this way?”

“Huh?”

“I have stated my contentment with our destination, yet you insist I should treat you negatively because of a single misstep. Is this how you presume everyone thinks about you, before even attempting to learn about their true intentions?”

And just like that, the shroud was lifted, and Jim suddenly realized what prevailed over him last few years. Spock was exactly right, and he didn’t know what to say.

He brushed the snow off the railing instead.

“I consider every new experience a gift,” Spock said softly. “I am not disappointed, Jim. I am grateful for your gift.”

Despite the almost sub-zero temperatures Jim felt very warm.

“Do you think we could convince Scotty to make an unscheduled stop at Trazis?” He asked. “It’s a beautiful planet, covered entirely in beaches, we’re gonna pass it on our way back to Earth. I need to give you a better gift, after all.”

“We will attempt to do so,” Spock said, and Jim breathed out a laugh – but as he turned towards the staircase leading down, he saw Spock freezing into a statue.

“Spock?...”

Spock held up a hand, signalling Jim to keep quiet, concentrating on something – and then pressed his hand at the railing carefully.

“The vibrations,” he explained, every line in his body rigid and alert.

“An earthquake?” Jim asked lowly, not feeling anything.

And as if someone was listening, the answer appeared right before their eyes: first the distant rumbling even Jim could hear that grew louder and more menacing, and then a silhouette of a massive ship growing darker as it moved over them; the mist was blasted away under the engines enough for them to see the emblem on its side: a lopsided triangle and flowing script inside of it.

The ship hovered over the planet heavily – and blasted off into space the next moment, the whirlwind of white mist hitting them so hard it almost knocked them off their feet.

Only pressing to the railing bodily prevented Jim from being thrown on the ground, and they watched the swirling specks for a few more moments – and then, as if rehearsed, looked at each other, both having recognized the symbol.

“Is the triangle an exclusive signature of a certain group or is it used widely?” Spock asked.

“It’s a unique sign each independent vessel has,” Jim replied, already knowing what the next remark is going to be.

“Logically, I can conclude it belongs to the group that approached us at the hub,” Spock looked into the sky again, unconcerned about the mist falling on his skin and forming tiny droplets in his eyelashes, and somehow Jim knew how it must’ve felt for him, to have a piece of a puzzle so close and yet unable to touch it. He squared his shoulders with determination.

“You wanna go after them?”

“Can we?” Spock’s head whipped around, and Jim grinned at him, cold all but forgotten, replaced with a new sense of purpose. After everything that’s happened, reuniting Spock with members of his own race as the least he could do for him.

Instead of answering, Jim trampled down the stairs, yelling, “Scotty, can you see where the ship that’s just left the planet is headed?!” before he even saw the guy.

“Sure thing,” Scotty shouted back, his fingers flew over the touch screen, “if ya could just give me your communicator to download the logs real quick- thanks!” He attached the communicator Jim threw to the computer. “Aha! Its name is, uh... SS Narak’es, I hope I’m pronouncing this right. They’ve made quite a lot of stops, including Earth, but they’re Vulcan in origin – and that’s where they’re heading right now!”

“Great!” Jim rushed out of the outpost enthusiastically in the direction of the shuttle.

“But... Why are we looking them up?” Scotty asked, voice lost, trailing after him.

“Because they’re Spock’s buddies, and we really need to see them!” Jim panted, reaching the shuttle in record time and slapping a palm against it to catch a breath.

“They are not my _buddies_ ,” Spock inserted, not a hint of exertion in his voice.

“Future buddies then,” Jim replied, “so let’s put this wonderful ship to a good use, track their course, and catch up with them!”

“Catch up with- _Are ya kidding me?!_ ” Scotty was nearly shouting. “Ships of that type use at least warp _four_ for standard speed!”

“I need warp five then,” Jim said and patted Scotty on the shoulder on his way into the shuttle, earning him a bewildered look.

“Who _are_ you people?!”

“We have the resources to make the adjustments you proposed for the vessel right now,” Spock suggested, opening several blueprints on the padd. “They would increase the capacity of the engines by forty percent and achieve the necessary warp factor.”

“Aye, they’d do that,” Scotty flicked through the padd, “but they’d destabilize the entire shuttle!”

“How much distance we’d be able to cover before destabilization?” Jim asked.

“Dunno,” Scotty shrugged, “a couple of parsecs?”

“More than enough to catch up with them,” Jim replied. “Let’s do this! C’mon, Scotty, what did you say about eternal gratitude for Spock’s help?”

“I said we agreed that was a joke!” Scotty exclaimed, and then sighed and closed his eyes, seemingly accepting his fate. “Oh, what the hell, it’s not like there’s anything of substance happening on JW. Today’s just as good a day to die as any other,” he said, flicking a dozen of switches on with one hand and already holding a toolbox in the other. “I need one of ya piloting her – I’ll go oversee the engines,” he shoved a screwdriver into his mouth.

Jim jumped into the pilot’s seat, hands landing on the controls naturally, and started familiarizing himself with the shuttle.

And then they were shooting through space again, Scotty’s and Spock’s voices providing feedback on the engines’ state via the comm channel, as Jim smoothly pushed the groaning ship into warp three, then four, then finally five.

About thirty minutes of the tightly controlled flight went well – that is, without any ripped off pieces of the ship – but it seemed this was the most it was capable of taking.

The shuttle shook so violently the controls nearly jumped out from underneath Jim’s fingers – he could only hope Spock and Scotty were doing alright in the engine room. They were, if the reassuring presence of their voices over the comm was any indication.

“If we’re about to die, lads,” Scotty said, “I just want ya to know that y’re like a family to me, even if we’ve just met—”

“We’re not going to die!” Jim insisted stubbornly. Another cracking sound, and a light went off indicating one of the engines was out of the picture. Jim griped the armrest: just ten thousand kilometres to go.

“The likelihood of our deaths has just increased by five percent,” Spock supplied, voice maddeningly unaffected.

“What was it before?” Scotty asked politely.

“Approximately eighty percent.”

“We’re NOT GOING TO DIE!” Jim shouted and opened a hailing channel – they’ve just came within the other ship’s communication range. One hand on the controls, another punching in a distress signal, he finally saw the ship in front of them.

The comm chimed, the channel with the other ship opening – but before they could utter a word, Jim yelled, “Shuttlecraft Johnnie Walker is in critical condition and requesting immediate assistance!!”

There was a short pause, and then a cool female voice responded, “Captain T’Pring of SS Narak’es acknowledging. Stand by for the tractor beam.”

The tiny silver silhouette of the ship shot out an equally tiny ray – and the shaking stopped, silence deafening, the shuttle now suspended in the powerful tractor beam, and when Spock and Scotty reappeared on the bridge Jim finally shut down the engines, allowing the SS Narak’es pull them into her body.

As Jim rose from the chair, uncontrollable tremor ran through his left leg, reminding him that yes, he was actually shot not too long ago. If McCoy knew this, he would’ve killed him. Spock made an aborted movement as if he wanted to grab Jim’s elbow as he stumbled – he didn’t seem affected, as expected; Scotty’s breaths were ragged, still high on adrenaline.

When the doors of the airlock slid shut, and it was finally safe to tumble out of the worn shuttle, they were met with blank stares and dozens of severe eyebrows of the group from the hub. Now the weirdness was even more glaringly obvious – Jim has never seen so many Vulcans together in one place.  There were no other species on board.

Suddenly, he felt like an intruder.

The slightly steaming shuttle was occupied by the Vulcan engineers immediately, and this left only two women to greet them – a younger one wearing a silver suit, and an older one with an extremely disdainful air around her.

“I am T’Pring, the captain of this ship and the leader of the research group, we spoke over the communication channel,” the younger woman, the leader of the expedition they’ve already met, said. She was tiny, barely reaching Jim’s shoulder. “This is my mother, T’Sen.”

T’Sen acknowledged them with a curt nod.

Neither of them gave any indication about remembering meeting them in the hub; perhaps, they thought new circumstances warranted a new introduction.

“Jim, Spock, Scotty,” Jim pointed at the respective companions. Of course, the Vulcans’ gazes were glued to Spock immediately.

“We offer our gratitude for helping us,” Spock said.

“Your gratitude is accepted,” T’Sen replied. “However, we must ask you to leave.”

“Why?” Scotty frowned. “We didn’t perform a dangerous stunt just to be thrown out a moment later.”

“We cannot allow outworlders to step on New Vulcan. That is the law,” T’Sen replied stiffly, and T’Pring glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, so quickly that Jim wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t watching her at that very moment.

“What happened to pacifism and helping others?” Jim couldn’t resist asking.

“We rescued your ship and your lives,” T’Pring said with another glance at her mother. “...Against prior recommendations. That is all we can offer you; you should accept our generosity.”

Jim understood that perhaps they were wary of a possible attack, especially on the anniversary, seeing how this ship was Vulcan-exclusive; but it didn’t get rid of the annoyance he felt.

T’Sen confirmed his suspicions. “You may stay,” she told Spock, “but after we assist with repairing your shuttle, the outworlders must leave before we reach New Vulcan.”

Spock made a tiniest movement forward, as if about to argue, and Jim brushed his fingertips over his arm briefly and muttered under his breath, “Don’t.”

“In order to accelerate the process of your departure, I suggest we start the repairs now. Please await here,” T’Sen said, and without sparing more than a glance at the humans, turned around and walked out of the room. T’Pring didn’t linger much longer and followed suit.

So they were not even allowed to explore the ship. Okay.

Jim spun around, flapping his hands aimlessly. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him empty as it always did; and the cold welcome only intensified it.

“Well, I don’t see the point of standing here,” he said bitterly. “Maybe we should help fixing the ship if they want us outta here so quick?”

Scotty nodded, his gaze glued to the engineers, apparently not trusting them with his shuttle.

“I’d be glad to,” he said absent-mindedly and stalked towards the engineers, who didn’t pay him much attention even after he started correcting their every move.

“Perhaps if I ask them they would permit you to stay aboard,” Spock said quietly, and Jim shook his head.

“Don’t,” he repeated. “You’ll alienate them by arguing, you’ll be working with them, after all.”

“Excuse me, what makes you think I will be working with them?” Spock tilted his head, eyebrows drawn together slightly. “Do you know something I do not?”

When Jim suggested they chase after Narak’es he didn’t stop to think what the consequences would be. He didn’t expect the ending to catch up with them so quickly, but now that they were here, the only proper outcome was glaringly obvious.

For all their soul-bearing conversations, shared interests, and fingers weaved together neither has actually indicated the desire to continue the travelling together aloud.

The universe’s apology basket was through with. As expected.

“They are your people,” Jim said, “they offered you a place on their ship – a _research_ ship, just like you wanted. It’s a perfect ending,” he smiled, even though it came out strained. “Good to know our inane trip amounted to something.”

“What are your plans in this scenario?” Spock asked, scrutinizing. “Return to Earth?”

“Dunno, probably not, I’m tired of being earthbound. I’ll find a ship to command,” he nodded at Scotty. “Maybe become his second pilot or something.”

“I see,” Spock said with a barest pause. “If that is what you think is the best...”

“You should stay,” Jim said firmly, even though it hurt to. “Ask them about careers, I’m sure they will find a spot for your big brain.”

“Very well,” Spock squared his shoulders, “if that is what you wish. I will help with repairing the ship as well.”

No, that’s not what I wish, Jim thought, but that’s how it should be. Because honestly, what he was supposed to do? Tell Spock he shouldn’t reunite with his dying race and pursue his dream, and instead run away with Jim to become space pirates or something? He was not that selfish, thank you very much. Just like helping someone was what made his death worthwhile, the departure would be easier to handle knowing it ensured Spock’s future.

The repairs progressed most efficiently, with no idle chatting; the moment Jim and Spock joined Scotty at the platform, they were given tasks, and as soon as they were completed, they were given new ones, without a chance to take a breath. That’s why it was only when the repairs were nearing the end Jim could find a moment to check his abandoned communicator, which he realized he hasn’t opened since the hub.

While the communicator was on mute, Lester has replied. 

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**J:** Cliché much?

Jim tapped the communicator against his palm nervously. Lester. A woman who seemed to be everywhere – and who might have key knowledge to connecting the puzzle pieces.

Ensuring Spock was too preoccupied to notice what he was doing, Jim typed a reply quickly.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** you’re janice lester  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** from the camus expedition  
  
**J:** Gasp!  
  
**J:** Yes, I am. So?  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** tell me about the machine you found in the ruins of camus ii  
  
**J:** And if I don’t?  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** i’m telling the fs all about your fake personas, and idc if they get me in the process because i'm not doing this for myself  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** i’m doing this for spock, and as you’ve probably figured out there’s little i wouldn’t do for his sake

There was a pause during which Jim wondered if he should’ve made up a more powerful threat, but then the communicator lit up with a novel-like message.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**J:** Ok, I believe you. I know that feeling all too well, being ready to sacrifice anything to get what you want. Although the thing I want is a lot harder to achieve than making a single man happy. Alright, where to begin?... I used to be an archaeologist – that is, a legal archaeologist, with a doctorate and all – and led the Camus II expedition; we found a lot of technology dealing with influencing minds there, some of it so advanced even our telepaths couldn’t figure out its functions. Personally, I was most interested in the life energy transference – being able to occupy the body of whoever I desire, that’s just perfect – but that’s a story for another time. A sad story that resulted in a court martial and leaving the world of legal science forever – a thing I regret the most. At time it seemed like a perfect rebellious act, but as it turns out, living in a constant state of looking over your shoulder is no good. But I digress. The mind enhancer worked as an amplifier for hive minds, basically if you set it to certain brainwave parameters, you can connect with the entirety of your species. If there's something to do with telepathy – whether it's a person or an object or another machine – this can enhance your abilities to inane levels. That’s actually why it wasn’t as desirable of a trophy as life energy transference, for example – hive minds are already hive, and the single-minded species are horrified at the prospect of communicating with billions of their comrades at once. I mean, some of us can’t even answer texts on time, you know. If you catch my drift. Besides, there’s a reason we’re single-minded. Being a conductor would probably kill you or something like that.  
  
**J:** Satisfied?  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** yeah, thank you  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** so it can't work without a conductor?  
  
**J:** It's an ENHANCER. It needs something to ENHANCE to work.  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** where is it now?  
  
**J:** Hell if I know.  
  
**J:** Probably collecting dust in VSA archives.  
  
**J:** Might I ask what you gained from this information?  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** i satisfied my scientific curiosity  
  
**J:**...  
  
**J:** You really should take classes on better lying techniques.

Seeing no point in continuing the conversation, Jim snapped the communicator shut and shoved it into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Another ‘nothing?’ ” Spock asked, an eyebrow raised.

“Just some texts,” Jim shrugged nonchalantly.

“Can I see them?”

“It’s nothing interesting,” he said, staring at the burnt motherboard resolutely. He felt really uncomfortable lying to Spock, especially since he, most likely, will sense the lie.

Spock’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

(Honestly, that’s when Jim should’ve started sensing something was wrong; when Spock, with his scientist’s mind, simply let so many unanswered questions go).

Jim thought about all the puzzle pieces he had but still couldn’t make fit together: the stone of Gol, the machine turning species into a hive mind… Nobody could do it, even Starfleet with their investigation teams and amazing scientists. Maybe there was just one piece missing to complete the picture?

“Nero would never allow me to read his messages as well,” Spock said, accusing, with a distinct air of ‘I thought you would be different.’

A wrench slipped out of Jim’s hand and hit Scotty in the head. He didn’t look down at the yelp, too busy staring at Spock.

“Who?” Jim was proud of himself for making his voice produce words and not gurgling sounds.

“Nero. My caretaker,” Spock explained, seemingly realizing he didn’t tell Jim his name before.

And crap.

If only he did—

The puzzle rearranged itself in Jim’s mind: the dates fit – Spock was twenty, raised in a way that would never lead to him questioning about Vulcan, imprisoned with utmost fineness, both physically and psychologically. An abnormally strong telepath – must’ve been that way since birth, the Romulans _knew_ – strong enough to become a conductor for a hive mind.

But more importantly, with dread swallowing him whole Jim realized that instead of keeping the stone of Gol safely hidden, he brought it right in the hands of a terrorist on a silver platter. A terrorist who could break into parts of his own house with ease, and who most likely even had Spock’s handprint scanned just in case. Briefly, he wondered how strong Spock’s moral convictions had to be to grow up into a person he did while being brought up by a person who destroyed an entire race.

Spock was saying something else, but Jim wasn’t listening. Buzzing panic spread in his mind; he knew only two things: one, he had to get the stone back before Nero found it (and then throw it into an acid lake), and two, he couldn’t tell Spock _anything_.

Because Spock was _good_ and noble, and he would definitely want to help him – and the only safe place for him to be was hundreds of light years away from his former “caretaker”. T’Pring and her crew might not be the nicest people, but they would protect him as one of their own.

But the price Jim had to pay for his safety was making them split up.

There were so many foolproof ways to do so. He could convince Spock liking him was a joke, that was sure to turn him off. He could behave like a ruthless savage, like the people he tried to scare Spock with in the beginning. He could simply tell him he hated him.

But he wouldn’t dare say it to Spock, knowing it would destroy him.

The revelation was a shot of adrenaline that swiped the mud of the melancholy away, making him realize how stupid his made up reasoning sounded. Going separate ways was just another example of the thing he always did: assume everyone hated him and would be better off without him, following it with single-handedly cutting off all ties. But now it was time for a change.

The events of the past days were so incredible they almost seemed like a fantasy, and once Jim even pinched his arm to check if he was dreaming.

Love at first sight, just like destiny, was a concept he wanted to believe in on good days and absolutely despised on bad days; but even if he thought it was the most ridiculous imaginary thing ever, he had to be blind not to see the connection he had with Spock. He even said their minds were compatible, god. They could be so much more together: as friends, as lovers, as a fearless duo of space explorers – anything or everything.

This was a start of something so precious and important, practically gift-wrapped and shoved into his hands, he would be a _complete_ _idiot_ to let it slip through his fingers.

“Jim.”

Jim’s head snapped up to find Spock staring at him with a miniature frown.

“You appear to have spaced away.”

“Spaced _out_ ,” Jim corrected automatically, “Spock, listen, I need to – do a thing. I wish I could stay but you’ve heard them. I have to leave.”

He gestured in the vague direction of Vulcan engineers.

Spock’s frown deepened.

“If you truly wished to stay you would fight for it,” he said. Crap, crap, seeing hurt in his eyes was the last thing Jim wanted. “In the short amount of time we have known each other you have shown tendency to disrespect the rules,” he looked down. “I do not understand human inclination to consciously overcomplicate everything.”

“I just need to – uh,” Jim said awkwardly. “Take care of some business on Earth, and then I’ll come back, okay? And I’ll make this work. Become an expert on human culture or something. I bet they need it. I’ll tell them they do. I promise.”

He fumbled in the pouch on his belt and pulled out a portable scanner consisting of two thin cylinders magnetized together that, when separated, formed a screen between them.

“I need to scan your hand,” he said, hoping against all odds that Spock wouldn’t question it.

“For what purpose?”

Jim sighed. “Just... I need it. To— uh, to open the vault in your house. I have to get the stone and destroy it before someone else does.”

Jim expected a full questioning, but Spock simply stared at him with that line of confusion between his brows.

“You had means to open the vault all this time, and you did not tell me my threat was meaningless. Why?”

Jim shrugged. By the time they arrived at the construction site the respect he had for Spock and his mysterious story that became horrifying have merged together to form a single awareness: this was the man he wanted. Even if he didn’t understand it completely at the time.

The screen swiped over Spock’s hand, and the scanner created a three-dimensional handprint; Jim saved it and climbed down the ladder.

Spock followed him, and they stood next to the shuttle, brushing the dirt off their clothes. Jim busied himself with cleaning a particularly stubborn splash of oil on his battle scarred jacket, aware on Spock’s eyes on him; and then he spoke.

“Please give me your hand, Jim.”

“Why?” Jim dropped the edge of the jacket. “So you can check if I’m lying or not?”

“No. As I said before, I believe you.”

Jim glanced away guiltily.

Spock continued, “I am asking for your hand simply because there is something human I wish to give you.”

He took a single step forward so that there was barely any space between them, and Jim had to tilt his head up to continue looking into his eyes.

“After our conversation concerning human customs in the restaurant I have read several articles concerning the topic. Parting gifts are another example of symbolism your species enjoy, are they not?”

“They are,” Jim replied, perfectly aware of how tight his voice sounded. Every centimetre of his skin was aware of the distance between them and was aching to close it. A part of him rejoiced at this surprising development, another sounded the alarm because this was _too_ unexpected; and as Spock leaned forward, studying his face keenly, his lips tingled in anticipation.

And the next moment Jim’s face was pressed into Spock’s shoulder, and Spock’s hands were pressed at his shoulder blades, drawing him closer.

Of course, going for a kiss would be just weird for Spock. Actually, come to think of it, hugging was pretty uncharacteristic as well, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Hugging was nice too. In fact, Jim couldn’t remember an instance where he would prefer hug to a kiss.

So he just melted into the comfort of the embrace, and ran his hands over Spock’s back lightly; after all, it was his duty to introduce him the best hugging experience.

While Spock held himself stiffly still, his hands snaked underneath Jim’s jacket, hot palms grazing his lower back; Jim tucked his chin into Spock’s neck, mindful of the layers of the poncho and the sweater separating their bare skin, thinking that whatever happened next, at least he would always have this moment remembered.

“Your transport is ready,” someone’s detached voice said, and Jim opened his eyes (wait, when did he close them?) to see a Vulcan engineer pointedly _not_ looking at them, an aura of robotic disgust around him.

Too soon Spock’s hands slid off, and he stepped away, folding them behind his back.

“I wish you success in your endeavour, Jim,” he said, and Jim nodded numbly.

“You too,” he replied. “I will come back.”

And only when he was sitting in the second pilot’s chair on Scotty’s shuttle watching the Vulcan ship disappear in a flurry of distorted space and ion particles, while Scotty pushed the engines into warp five to go in a different direction, he slid a hand into his back pocket to find no communicator there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t334 drew an illustration for the handholding scene [here](https://t334.tumblr.com/post/161996848808/an-entry-for-thyla-big-bang-fic-out-of)!  
> [T'Pring drawing](http://leifor.tumblr.com/post/162518371925/doodled-tpring-the-captain-of-ss-narakes-a) by me.  
> If anyone ever draws something for this fic, please show me, I will love you forever.


	5. Chapter 5

On the Narak’es, Spock unfolded his hands from behind his back, and from out of one long sleeve a communicator slid out.

Taking a person’s possession without their explicit permission was illegal, yet Spock thought it was justified. He needed this information; he was kept in the dark wasting his usefulness away for too long, and reading Jim’s conversations with J would help shed some light.

The only thing Spock was possibly concerned about was tricking Jim, especially since he seemed to consider the hug a genuine display of “liking”, as he’s put it earlier. But Jim was smart, he must’ve understood the reason behind his actions wasn’t a malevolent one.

Spock activated the screen and focused on the words in the messaging app, and not on the fresh memory of the warmth of Jim’s body pressed against his own that seemed to ingrain itself into his every cell.

He scrolled through the lines written by people with inane nicknames, but his fingertips still sensed the smooth texture of the jacket and rough fabric of the jeans, not the neutral surface of the touchscreen. Spock wiped one hand on the inside of the sleeve trying to erase the memory; he suspected choosing such a bold action to acquire the communicator was a bad idea. This only made the strange sensations he noticed earlier grow, which was highly unsettling. His body wasn’t supposed to be out of his control.

Noticing T’Pring approaching out of the corner of his eye, Spock hid the communicator: the Vulcans’ position on having human technology on board wasn’t clear yet, and he didn’t want to risk losing it.

T’Pring inclined her head slightly and said, “Welcome to the SS Narak’es.”

A belated greeting which showed exactly what T’Pring and her crew thought of humans – and, perhaps, of all the other species.

T’Pring made a graceful motion inviting Spock to follow her. With her utterly blank expression, all inflection erased, with shiny black hair forming an elaborate hairdo decorated with small crystals, and attentive jet-black eyes, T’Pring was reminiscent of T’Mira a lot; Spock was grateful for this sense of familiarity, even though in other ways her presence was disconcerting – it reminded Spock of his own faulty memory.

“I have calculated the trajectory of your flight and determined you pursued us from Delta Vega,” T’Pring said, wasting no time on so-called small talk. “I wish to know your reasons for being there.”

“We arrived on that planet by accident, Miss T’Pring,” Spock replied.

“Captain T’Pring,” she corrected as they moved through the wide softly lit corridors, passing identical doors which only difference was plates with varying numbers. “Vulcans do not have accidents; perhaps it was caused by your human companions,” she glanced at him sharply as if turning on a laser. “I would advise you to be wary of them, Mr. Spock, humans have proven to be quite troublesome and highly irrational.”

“Thank you for your useful advice, _Captain_ T’Pring, however, I have managed to have a successful journey with my human companions so far,” Spock said. “Perhaps your negativity towards them comes from being unable to understand the advantages of their mentality.”

T’Pring didn’t react – of course she wouldn’t – other than raising an eyebrow two millimetres at the defiant emotion slipping into Spock’s tone.

“Perhaps your ability to understand them comes from being likened to them,” she said.

Spock berated himself inwardly for letting this much slip. Perhaps this ship will be the place where he can finally have some undisturbed time to meditate.

“May I ask what the purpose of your expedition on Delta Vega was?” Spock asked.

“We are a team of renowned biologists, our continuous mission is salvaging the tissue of the animals native to the planet aiming to copy their DNA and regenerate the now extinct species.”

“An admirable goal,” Spock said. T’Pring nodded in assent. “Have you been successful?”

“Indeed. We have found particles of drakoulias fur and bone tissue – would you like to visit the laboratory to witness the process of copying?”

“Certainly,” Spock reminded himself firmly that excitement had to be repressed to the point of non-existence.

“In that case, follow me,” she summoned a lift that brought them into the largest area Spock’s seen on the ship so far. T’Pring remained in her silver suit, but forced Spock to take the poncho off, passing it to a worker with a command to fix the holes that were burnt in the fabric by the stray sparks that flew off the shuttering engines on the shuttle.

The laboratory was huge, full of clearly cutting-edge equipment purpose of which Spock could only guess. T’Pring led him to a brightly-lit section of the lab, where a piece of fur was lying under a glass dome, and a multitude of scanners and padds were aligned neatly on pristine white surface.

The screen displayed the process of DNA replication, and Spock bowed down to look through a microscope.

“Did you trace our travel plan after seeing us at the hub?” T’Pring asked after several minutes of silence, clearly waiting until he was immersed in the process to catch him off guard. Spock straightened slowly and looked her in the eye.

“As I stated earlier, arriving on Delta Vega was merely a coincidence.”

T’Pring looked at him as if ‘coincidence’ was the dirtiest insult she’s ever heard.

“I assume it was your human associates’ fault.”

This wasn’t a question.

So Spock decided to forgo answering it.

T’Pring showed him around several complicated ongoing processes; thankfully, Spock knew a thing or two about genetics (if only in theory) and was able to follow her explanations without asking for clarification.

Now he knew the meaning of the human expression ‘time flies’; if it wasn’t for his internal clock he wouldn’t have believed several hours have passed already.

Eventually, T’Pring said, “I would like to invite you to a meal with my crew at 2100 hours ship time.”

“Thank you for the invitation,” Spock replied, “however, I do not require sustenance at the moment.”

This was the first thing that made T’Pring perform an erratic movement: she jerked her head in Spock’s direction.

“Do you consider your stay on Narak’es that unsatisfactory?” She asked, eyebrows climbing up.

“The time I spent in the laboratory was most enlightening,” Spock replied, trying not to let his perplexity at the sudden change of the tone show.

“Yet you deny my invitation.”

“These are unconnected statements,” Spock had a distinct impression that they were talking about completely different things.

Looking at him through the transparent screens where lines of text dashed through like shooting stars, T’Pring said slowly, “You are a guest, and I am a host. I offered you a customary meal as per our tradition.”

“Ah. Of course,” Spock said with as much confidence as he could master. “I accept your invitation, and I apologize if I have offended you.”

There was no possible way to cover it, to pass it as a misunderstanding – by the way T’Pring’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she looked over every detail in Spock’s appearance, he knew she realized his absolute lack of knowledge about Vulcan culture. However, she seemed to find no logic in elaborating the topic, and changed the subject.

“I do not take offence, Mr. Spock,” she returned to updating the ship’s logs. “What area of science you were trained at?”

“Mainly engineering,” Spock replied, “however, I also studied medicine, geology, and biology of the Earth.”

“Why this particular topic?”

“One must study the place where they live,” Spock replied cautiously.

“I understand,” T’Pring inclined her head. “After the attack my mother and I lived off-planet for a short period of time as well. You were raised by humans, I presume?”

This was asked in a reassured tone, barely a question.

Mentioning Romulans would most likely result in negative commentary, so Spock opted to skim the question.

“I was not raised by my biological parents.”

“What is your family name? Perhaps I knew your parents.”

“I do not have one.”

If Spock knew this would be the point where T’Pring’s alienation would grow tenfold, he would’ve dodged this seemingly innocent question. Apparently, not having a family name was a sin in T’Pring’s eyes – although Spock understood why, it was all tying down to belonging somewhere. His every answer moved him further away from being a member of the species T’Pring has sworn to defend.

However, if there was one prominently good quality T’Pring had it was her flawless logic. Not having a family name was a degrading quality, as was being raised on Earth and fraternizing with humans, but it didn’t impact Spock’s ability to understand DNA replication and thus, T’Pring continued with her tour at the lab, inviting Spock to meet several other scientists under her command.

But her attitude changed, where equality was now clear superiority appeared.

Spock simply couldn’t belong anywhere, even if he wished to.

 _“What’s wrong with him?”_ Lester wrote.

 _“The hell’s your problem?”_ Dr. McCoy said.

 _“You lot are weird,”_ were Mr. Scott’s words.

T’Pring didn’t verbalize her discontent, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t blatantly obvious.

Of course there was something wrong with him, more than he realized. Everyone he met was falling into a category, behaving according the parameters being set by their groups. But he was an outlier to everyone: as a Vulcan, as a Romulan, as a scientist, as a functioning member of the Federation, as a telepath – he thought he was the only one for so long, but now he was one of the thousands, and no one cared about his abilities that much apart from general fear of telepathy psi-null species had. He didn’t even have documents to prove his existence. He was nothing and had nothing to offer, an empty shell of a person.

Yet, despite it, for some strange reason Jim liked him.

Perhaps for the same reason he decided to accompany him on his journey: no self-preservation instinct and craving danger. Perhaps it was pity; a common characteristic for humans. Perhaps, it was a lie to get rid of Spock and collect the stone of Gol.

...No, it was an illogical worry. He saw Jim’s mind, he was a noble man.

Jim told him not to conform to the rules; but if there were no rules, who was he supposed to be? Besides, Jim was the only one who said that. He must be an outlier too.

The only sense of belonging he experienced was when he was alone with him – but he couldn’t be with Jim forever, one person could not substitute the society. Case in point – his leaving. He must’ve realized it too. But Spock also knew he could never return to living in seclusion, not when an entire galaxy was laid in front of him tantalizingly. In the end, living in a world that hated him but having an access to the secrets of the universe was better than being cut off knowledge completely. Perhaps there was a chance that if Spock created enough new inventions and theories he would deserve a place here…

Thinking about Jim led to a realization that he had an educated telepath to consult with about the matter that was always present in the back of his mind ever since the revelation about the double-sided transference.

“Captain T’Pring, I wish to ask another question. Is it possible for a psi-null human to have a mental connection with a telepath?”

He was worried T’Pring would consider him inferior again for asking a question every telepath should know an answer to, but she merely regarded him thoughtfully.

“It depends on the situation. You have to be more specific.”

“During a forced meld with a human where I had to assess his memories some accidental transference occurred: I now possess many impressions about the character of the human in question, but the problem that concerns me is that he seems to have impressions about me as well. I have been unable to find explanation; however, one of the theories I have is mental compatibility,” Spock decided truth was the best way to do things, even though Jim warned him against revealing too much many times.

T’Pring watched him silently for a while, as if he was an interesting scientific project. “I admit to not being familiar with this most curious phenomenon. Mental compatibility could be the most likely explanation if it occurred between two telepaths, but not with a psi-null individual. It is unheard of. Are you certain your human did not lie about experiencing the effects of the transference?”

Spock was certain. Perhaps it really was something unique to Jim and himself, no matter how improbable it sounded, like in those stories T’Mira told him.

“Or perhaps they lied about being psi-null?” T’Pring added.

“The contact between our minds was not long enough to discern this,” Spock replied. If they entered a full meld, he could search for traces of telepathy in Jim’s mind – theoretically, it was possible his ancestors has extrasensory abilities, even if the chances were low.

T’Pring studied him, curiosity apparent. Of course, as a geneticist, encountering such a phenomenon must have been truly fascinating for her.

In the end, she gave Spock a small card with holographic letters spelling her full name and personal comm number.

“If you ever learn any new information about it, please contact me. Knowing the circumstances that led to this anomaly would be most beneficial to my studies.”

Spock hid the card next to his communicator, and they returned to over-viewing the workings of the laboratories. Eventually, T’Pring mentioned the conference she was going to present the results of the expedition at – and mentioned it being tied in to something called the Memorial Day. Obviously, the event was dedicated to the anniversary of the planet’s destruction, although the way T’Pring spoke of it was full of disdain.

“It is merely Starfleet’s invention in a transparent attempt to offer an apology for not being able to stop the Romulans. They have saved Earth, they consider it a victory,” she said bitterly, “and they gave us a day of mourning as an act of charity, to show the Federation how caring they are. Now there is one day every year when outworlders flood Aikum, our moon. Thankfully, our government has voted for full prohibition of outworlders on the colony itself, except for a few trustworthy diplomats. It would be logical to assume it is simply a tool for the Federation members to gain access to our culture.”

Spock decided not to point out the lack of logic in this, and the fact that many Vulcans seemed to like to say everything was logical and twist the concept in a way that suited them most.

“Are you familiar with the stone of Gol?” He asked later when T’Pring paused in her explanation of the DNA replication.

“That is an unexpected query,” she replied, not looking up from the screen. “What prompted it?”

“My interest in the artefact, naturally. I thought you might possess necessary knowledge.”

“How so?”

“You are a Vulcan.”

“So are you,” finally she looked at Spock.

“You are the captain of a science vessel,” he pointed out, and after a long moment of blankly staring at each other, she assented.

“Very well. What aspects of the stone of Gol are of interest for you?”

“Mainly the missing component. What is its functional purpose, what is its symbolic meaning in separating War and Death?”

“The answer becomes obvious when you think back to the history of the artefact,” T’Pring said, flicking the switches on the control panel that produced a three-dimensional hologram of a DNA chain. Even though he discussed different topics, never once did she pause in her work. “The weapon became obsolete once we let logic straighten our thoughts, not only because we began denouncing violence that threatened to drive our species to extinction, but also because it stopped affecting us.”

“Peace was the missing component,” Spock made a logical conclusion.

“Indeed, as well as the key to overcoming the power of the stone. If you are free from the burden of emotions, a psychic attack is impossible.”

“That means the stone amplifies one’s emotions and projects them into one’s mind, until-”

“-it destroys the mind, leaving only a shell of a body,” T’Pring finished. “Correct. Especially the negative emotions; in the past the warriors would often trick their opponents into picking up weapons and thus making them experience stronger rage that comes from sensing a weapon against your hand. Of course, the difficulty here was that the true freedom from emotions had to be conscious – you know that our emotions are simply buried, not eliminated completely. Only a completed kolinahr could prevent the traces of emotion from forming in one’s mind; the legend was merely told in a way that would benefit Surak’s teachings and make our enemies disregard the stone.”

Spock didn’t know what kolinahr was, but the information about the stone, coupled with everything else he learned, especially from J, made a rather solid idea form in his mind.

“You were incorrect in your assumption that every member of the Vulcan race knows about the stone of Gol,” T’Pring continued unexpectedly. “On the contrary, it has transformed into something akin to a legend, intensified by other races’ speculations, and not every scientist knows of its origins.”

“Yet you do,” Spock said, wondering where she was heading.

“My mother was interested in mythology and mysticism,” T’Pring’s expression became even more closed off, if it was even possible. “Not T’Sen,” she added, when Spock glanced in the direction of the woman working at the microbiology station, “my other mother.”

“I grieve with thee,” he responded, drawing an appropriate conclusion from the use of the past tense. T’Pring inclined her head in reply.

Remembering what Jim said about shared grief, Spock tried to offer his support.

“Did she die during the destruction of Vulcan?”

T’Pring threw a quick, sharp glance at him, as if debating whether to reply or not. Perhaps she didn’t see the logic of offering compassion just like Spock himself didn’t at first.

“No,” she said, “she went missing sixteen years and fifty-two days ago. Neither Starfleet investigation department nor Federation Security could find the cause of death.”

There was severity in the lines of her face, amplified by the artificial white light from the screens, that increased when she mentioned Starfleet.

“All they said in their report,” she continued, typing on the touchscreen with cutting quick movements, “was _‘T’Mira was last seen in San Francisco transportation hub.’_ They offered nothing else. The lack of effort on their part was quite obvious.”

The world came to a halt.

Spock stared.

“Your other mother’s name is _T’Mira_?”

Sixteen years and fifty-two days.

“ _Was_ T’Mira,” T’Pring’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suffering from faulty hearing?”

Sixteen years and fifty-two days ago was the day he said goodbye to T’Mira.

And now that he looked at T’Pring, he _knew_ where he saw her: a single fuzzy glimpse of a face – much younger than she was now, a small child – he blocked, feeling guilty, because he was not allowed to see it. Because he was not allowed to access memories not meant for him in the meld with T’Mira.

This revelation – the fact he was so blind not to notice T’Pring’s features weren’t just a general Vulcan characteristic – hit him in full power, and then came another, a sadder one: T’Mira was dead.

“Do you require assistance of a medical professional?” T’Pring asked when Spock was silent for too long. Her voice bore none of the concern Jim had when he asked a similar thing, but Spock couldn’t care less.

“Your offer is appreciated but unnecessary,” he said. “However, I would be grateful if you show me a place where I can meditate.”

***

Spock was given guest quarters on Deck Two, and as soon as the doors swished close behind a security guard showing him to the room, Spock sank on his knees in a meditative position, familiarity of the action soothing his agitated mind. He didn’t try to smooth a flurry of thoughts and unwanted spikes of emotion as per usual procedure, diving straight into sorting out the information he received today, chasing the connection he knew the events must have.

 _Gut feeling_ , Jim called it.

Spock was certain it was merely the result of his subconscious recording and processing information faster than consciousness.

Perhaps they were both right – and perhaps if Jim and he would continue working together, they could accomplish even more—

Spock shook his head, pushing all thoughts of Jim aside.

Now was time for wiping away all subjective opinions to examine facts and only facts.

T’Mira died the day she completed Spock’s training: it was no coincidence. He brought up his childhood memories to inspect every interaction he had with her – not with her words, words lie, but with her mind, no matter how unpleasant experiencing her fear would be. He took apart her every thought, every inflection; revisited the moment when Nero told her she had a daughter, remembered seeing a marital bond in her mind – and fear.

Fear that now Spock realized wasn’t directed at him – but was connected to the bond.

She was afraid for her wife and daughter.

And then she died, because she was killed, because – it was the conclusion with the highest likelihood – Nero killed her.

Spock frowned inwardly. He didn’t like this conclusion – but the thought was wiped away immediately. His personal opinion didn’t matter here: what mattered was the veracity. As a human author once said, ‘if you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’.

Still, it was a big accusation with little proof: so Spock set out on searching for more. If this was T’Mira’s fate, this meant the other teachers suffered the same – his memory allowed him to recollect the exact steps Jim took to break into Starfleet records with perfect accuracy, entering the Investigation department’s records and setting a search for the names he knew. Sivorek, a Vulcan, went missing on 2238.54, last seen on Earth, presumed dead. Thon, an Andorian, missing since 2240.144, last seen on Earth, presumed dead.

Spock inhaled shakily with every new file opening to him, smoothing spikes of anger appearing in his mind. The only reason they were dead was because they were thrown at Spock for him to step over, like those old padds he disassembled to practice, that were now lying forgotten at the bottom of the spare parts box.

There also was the case of the stone of Gol, the psionic resonator completed with an enhancer very few can survive. Lester said his telepathy was abnormally strong. The fact he could break T’Mira’s barrier and see her thoughts without her knowing proved it.

Then there was Jim and the strange occurrence of two-sided transference even T’Pring couldn’t figure out: were Spock’s projections this forceful to imprint themselves on a psi-null human’s mind, or was something else the reason?...

There was no use to deny the obvious: _he_ was the missing component that would turn the stone into a weapon of mass destruction. He was grown as a tool, never given anything, never expected to live past age twenty.

But Spock wasn’t about to be that tool right now. He was the only one – Jim’s knowledge was questionable – who connected the dots at this point.

He opened Jim’s communicator: what he also had now was a direct source of information about the mercenaries’ movements.

Spock analysed Jim’s previous messages to imitate his speech patterns, and instead of his usual “greetings” he wrote:

Chat with: Baran_23, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** what is up

Jim also used a lot of profanities and insults in seemingly random places, so he added: 

Chat with: Baran_23, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** idiot  
  
**Baran_23:** What???  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** i am inquiring the hell after your wellbeing as it is the proper procedure of starting a conversation. obviously, i have no actual interest in your physical or mental state  
  
**Baran_23:** Kirk are you drunk  
  
**Baran_23:** Did you sell my stone and bought a bar  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** no. i am completely damn sober. furthermore the stone is not yours, it belongs to the vulcan cultural centre  
  
**Baran_23:** Yeah vulcan culture centres are the least of my concerns at the moment  
  
**Baran_23:** Okay “sober Kirk” what do you want  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** who you were planning on selling the vulcan artefact to?  
  
**Baran_23:** Kirk!!!!  
  
**Baran_23:** I shouldve known thats what you are after after you ran off with the stone!!  
  
**Baran_23:** Do you think Im that stupid to tell you the name of the guy so you can sell that stone to him directly without me getting my cut huh??

Spock briefly wondered if Jim's contacts turned the spelling and grammar check off intentionally. The disjointed words had only one useful detail.

Chat with: Baran_23, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** he is male  
  
**Baran_23:** Yeah that narrows it down to like 35% of the population GOOD FUCKING LUCK  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** please tell me the name of the buyer, i promise i will not sell him the stone  
  
**Baran_23:** Now thats a laugh  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** my words were not designed to be humorous. perhaps you can tell me about the other two parts of the stone in this case?  
  
**Baran_23:** What parts

Spock paused. Perhaps Baran_23 didn’t know the artefacts he has no doubt encountered belonged to the stone of Gol. It was likely – if the buyer was a skilled criminal, he would not reveal his subordinates his plan. 

Chat with: Baran_23, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** did he acquire two other artefacts with the similar particle signature, also vulcan in origin?  
  
**Baran_23:** Yes so dont even hope to find them so you can buy more bars  
  
**Baran_23:** Goodfuckingbye

Baran_23 has blocked you

Oh well, Spock got everything he could from him. Now all he needed to know is the place where the stone would be set up – and he had some ideas. If Jim’s words could be believed, the VSA was the richest source of the knowledge, which database T’Pring’s research ship had full access to; and the guest quarters had a conveniently placed terminal.

***

For an embodiment of wide-eyed innocence Spock could be very sneaky when he wanted to be.

Travelling back to Earth, Jim could only think about what Spock would find on his communicator. The most worrying was, of course, the conversation with Lester: he knew it was a dick move to hide information from Spock, but he was worried about Spock leaving the safety of the ship and T’Pring’s protection.

Perhaps thinking about Lester, and how her job required her to be knowledgeable and to have a long nose to stick in other people’s businesses was the reason Jim decided to seek her out once he bid Scotty goodbye at the hub.

In the crowded mess of the hub Jim’s eyes zeroed on Lester immediately – disguised in an ice cream seller uniform, wearing a black wig, practically unrecognisable.

A few long strides, and he was close enough to glare into her surprised eyes.

“Drop the ice cream and let’s go, we need to talk,” he said lowly, leaning against her stand to appear nonchalant to the passengers.

“Back so soon?” She asked, a fake retailer’s smile – the one that usually made people so conveniently ignore you – not leaving her face as she watched the passers-by. “Where’s your Vulcan friend?”

“None of your business,” Jim replied sharply.

“Oh, right, I remember – you’ll kill me if I touch a hair of his neat bowlcut.”

Jim frowned. There was no time for this.

“We need to talk in private. You must have a room for your shady deals here somewhere.”

She must’ve seen something in his eyes – the urgency, the fact that if anyone asked him right now what was it that he wanted most, he would reply “Keep Spock safe” – because she nodded slowly.

“That I do.”

She dropped the remaining ice cream cones into an excited Caitian child’s hands, and motioned Jim to follow her: past the waiting areas and cafeterias, through the stuff-only corridors, and finally into a rusty carcass of an abandoned shuttle.

“Do you have phasers?” Jim barked as soon as the door slid shut.

Lester turned the overhead lights on, illuminating the surprisingly neat metal surface of a desk with a dozen drawers under lock codes.

“Depends,” she shrugged, smiling and expecting a new verbal game to begin, “are you asking for a friend? Does this friend happen to be a Federation Security officer?”

But Jim had no time for jokes and dancing around.

“I need a fucking phaser, for myself, _now_. Do you have one?”

Lester actually snorted.

“Yeaaaah,” she drawled, “you’re a civilian, and selling weapons to civilians is actually illegal, unlike selling ice-cream from Riverside and telling people it’s made on Andoria, so... You don’t have the money to pay me for this,” she looked him over, condescending.

Jim almost ripped a piece of fabric off unfastening the Starfleet pin and shoving it into Lester’s face.

“How much for this?”

“A Starfleet pin?” She laughed. “I can get a dozen of those for a credit.”

Jim flipped it over. “Even the limited edition of 2233? See, it says George Kirk here. Worth thousands.”

Lester’s eyes widened, and she produced a scanner out of thin air.

“It’s genuine!” Her sparkling eyes flew even wider.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jim said impatiently, “do we have a deal?”

“I say we do. One type 2 phaser coming right up!”

Watching the pin disappear in her pocket, Jim felt...

...nothing. Maybe a hint of rightfulness; this was the most worthy sacrifice. His father would’ve done the same.

Lester pressed a finger to the scanner and opened a hidden compartment in a refrigerator, shoved boxes of bright ice cream wrappers aside, and took out a brand new phaser, latest model Starfleet officers were equipped with, handing it to Jim. He traced his fingers over the metal briefly – over the stun/kill switch, flipping it _on_ – and in a blink of an eye the phaser flew up to point between Lester’s shocked eyes.

“Good. Now tell me all you know about Nero.”

***

There was just one thing left to find out.

Spock scrolled through the contacts in the app, opening a new one, and typed in a text.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** hi

The reply was instant.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**J:** Would you look at that. Feeling guilty all of a sudden?  
  
**J:** You could’ve just asked nicely, you know. A phaser to the head is not a way to do business.

Spock made a quick work of scrolling through the past messages once more to see what Lester could be possible referring to, and found nothing. This could only mean one thing: Jim has already had a new confrontation with her. A twinge of worry shot through him before he could suppress it. He had hoped Jim would travel to Earth to meet up with Dr. McCoy, or others who could take care of him, but instead he seemed to put himself in even more danger.

Not knowing the context made creating a believable response difficult, so Spock decided to forgo this.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** i have a question about the damn enhancer for you  
  
**J:** Damn enhancer? No thanks, I’ve had it enough with your questions. It’s not pleasant to keep answering them without getting anything in return.  
  
**J:** A phaser doesn't count btw.  
  
**J:** Well, I suppose the sweet sweet revenge is enough of a payment though...  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** what revenge do you refer to?  
  
**J:** The one you’ll see very closely very soon. Because pointing a phaser at my head really hurt my feelings, and I had no choice but to tell him about you.  
  
**J:** I thought we had fun, Kirk, honestly. I’ve let so much slide. But that phaser... That was playing dirty. I was so disappointed.  
  
**J:** You’ve asked me how I got this number. Well, I didn’t get it from Baran or any other pawns. I got it straight from him.  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** i do not understand who you refer to.

There was a long pause.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**J:** You are not Kirk.

Spock wondered what could give him away. He calculated the possible paths he could take – push the lie or admit it, and chose the latter. After all, denying would just alienate Lester more.

On the plus side, he could return to using proper grammar and punctuation.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** I am his companion, we have met at the spaceport and the club in Riverside.  
  
**J:** Ah! Spock, was it? You stole Kirk’s communicator? Nice move. Didn’t know you could do it, with Kirk of all people – still waters run deep, don’t they.  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** I have a question about the psionic enhancer: what is its range of effect?  
  
**J:** I will answer you if you answer my question first.  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** Ask your question.  
  
**J:** How come you are such a strong telepath? I’ve known my fare share of Vulcans – don’t ask how – and nobody could be this accurate. And I’ve met ones who could read minds without even a touch, through a thick brick wall.

This was not a skill Spock was familiar with, and he stored it for later examination.

Chat with: J, TheBeastieBoy  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** I do not know. I have been told it is a genetic anomaly, most likely.  
  
**J:** So I was right about the mutation? Damn. I really hoped it would be something I could accomplish, like maybe you got your brains irradiated by the psionic enhancer or something. I wouldn’t mind getting my head turned inside out if it meant becoming telepathic. Want to hear a story about the Camus II expedition?  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** No, thank you. I would like you to answer my question about the enhancer.  
  
**J:** Suit yourself.  
  
**J:** The enhancer connects everyone whose parameters you enter in the machine, there’s no distance limits. Hive minds, remember? They don’t need to be close to each other to be connected.  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** Thank you.  
  
**J:** You’re welcome.  
  
**J:** And I’m sorry.  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** Why are you apologizing?  
  
**J:** I’m not.  
  
**J:** I’m expressing condolences.

***

Jim begged whoever’s listening, _please, let me not be late_.

As soon as he found the stone he would destroy it. A relic it was, he still couldn’t allow it to continue existing with a risk of falling into the wrong hands again. Even if it meant being thrown in prison for the destruction of item of cultural significance.

He reached the meadow in record time; the door to the invisible building that could only be opened from the outside swished open, and silence greeted him. Never trusting it for a second, with his back to the wall he moved through the rooms, phaser ready and on stun. No matter how much he was hurrying, he couldn’t risk confronting the Federation’s most wanted terrorist with bare hands. Especially, if Lester was to be believed, the terrorist who knew about their location from the moment they entered the club in Riverside. He should’ve trusted his intuition more and run away the moment he saw her; she wasn’t just a regular intelligencer; she was on the top of the chain connecting everyone to Nero. The chain Jim himself was inadvertently stuck in for an entire year.

He reached the kitchen with no disturbances, hooked the phaser on the belt and moved the fridge away, discovering a panel which he pried open – and there was the vault. He stretched the 3D scanner with Spock’s handprint and pushed it against the sensor; it whirled and revealed a small alcove.

Empty.

He could only catch a glimpse of it when a white hot rod of pain pierced his head.

It was like someone threw a grenade in his head, suddenly there was too much pain, fear and anguish were suffocating him from inside – he took a single breath that tore at his throat, his skull was turning to jelly—

When he came to it, he was on his knees, shaking, panting, face red, throat hoarse from screaming he couldn’t remember. Both the scanner and the phaser were missing.

Taking in a shaky pained breath that turned into a low whine involuntarily, he slowly raised his head and saw the stone of Gol, now complete with two more pieces, in a man’s hand.

His gaze slowly travelled up the hand, up to the body clad in unremarkable grey clothing, to the man’s face with tattoos covering the forehead ridges.

Was it the residual effect of Spock’s transference, or just a logical guess, but Jim immediately recognized the man who blew up an entire planet despite never seeing him before.

“You must be James Kirk,” Nero said.

“You must be the guy whose ass will be handed to him today,” Jim straightened, ignoring the pain in his stretching muscles and trying to pitch his voice not to sound like he’s just ran from Canada to Mexico.

“Kirk, Kirk...” Nero pretended to ponder his name. “Didn’t I kill you father?”

Jim’s fists clenched reflexively.

“Didn’t my father kill you fleet?” He snapped back. “I mean, that’s why you work alone now, isn’t it. Because a human single-handedly wiped your crew out. Must’ve been a pretty lame crew.”

The Romulan’s face twisted in a scowl. Jim knew he was doing it again: switching off self-preservation instinct completely and not just laughing at the face of danger, but giving it a middle finger too.

Once he was on the roll, it was hard to stop.

Jim stared at Nero’s blank eyes; not Vulcan blank, but simply two empty pits. The negativity rose like bile threatening to suffocate him again.

The phaser was safely hidden on Nero’s belt, with no chance to reach out for it. Jim felt like a fisherman’s boat in a middle of a stand-off with a fighter jet.

He looked at the stone again. The least he could do was gauge his plan, and then make his own up in the process.

“I assume you wanted the stone not for the sake of putting it on the shelf,” Jim said, pointing at the artefact: it was three times bigger than Jim’s piece, now fitted with a thick semicircle arc on the top, and a tiny inch-wide stone inserted into the centre.

“I am not the one for idle talking,” Nero said, pushing at the detailed carvings that must’ve been controls. “You will see everything first-hand. It’s fortunate that you gave Spock your communicator,” with a free hand, he took out a padd-like gadget that Jim recognized as the unfamiliar model of a tracking device. Must be Romulan technology. “With its wavelength at my disposal finding him is easy.”

“Is that all your plan relied on? That I give him my communicator?”

Nero shrugged. “If you didn’t, finding him would still be easy. I raised him. He is predictable.”

For some reason, this careless admission was the one that got his blood boil.

“Why do you want me?” Jim frowned, trying to spare a minute for some rational thinking. Charging head first into danger was all fine and good, but this required a cold head. Too much was at stake. “I mean, I get why you want Spock--”

“Do you, really?”

“--but why _me_?” Jim continued.

“You will be useful in many ways.”

 _Useful_ , what a good word. It meant staying alive for just a little longer.

“If you want me to go with you somewhere, you gotta be prepared, because personally I love talking,” Jim let his mouth run loose without giving it a second thought while calculating a plan at the same time. “Wanna hear some anecdotes? True stories from my life? My rendition of _Mr. Brightside_ _5_?”

He wondered if there was a way to get to the phaser, but no matter what route he would take, Nero would have enough time to activate the stone and knock him out again. So that was out of question.

“I can kill you any moment, and this is what you waste your time on?”

He knew perfectly well Nero wouldn’t kill him – if he wanted to, he would’ve done so when Jim was under the stone’s influence. If Jim had to guess, he would say he was supposed to be a bait for Spock.

“What can I say, I like to go out with a bang,” he said. “Live fast, die young. YOLO. I have a lot more sayings memorized, told’ya I like to talk. Can I interested you in a joke? I tried telling it to Spock, but he didn’t listen. Okay, so two Klingons and a Cardassian walk into a Terran bar—”

“ _Shut the fuck up!_ ”

Jim knew how to play the dumb pretty face card well, it helped him many times and was a technique he resorted to often. Although he didn’t know if it would work with Nero – after all, he knew him as a man who cracked Starfleet security and, more importantly, broke into his heavily guarded house. Well, it was still worth a try – at least for seeing the affronted look on Nero’s face.

“Move.”

Jim knew he should agree and follow: if Nero really had Spock’s coordinates – and the mere thought made his inside squirm with fear – Jim would have a better chance to protect him this way.

“C’mon! You went all this way to spend twenty years on searching for the stone, choosing a date of the anniversary, _and_ a peace conference with the reopening the VSA, finding the mind enhancer and god knows what else... Don’t you want to top such a grand plan with telling someone how you accomplished everything?”

“I do not need to tell you anything. You will see – the whole world will see. All of them were lucky to get first row tickets to see the fall of their beloved Federation founders,” his words were a quintessence of freezing hatred, as if not twenty years have passed since the day he commanded a black hole to be opened in the centre of a planet, but twenty days.

“Why are even doing this?” Jim asked, tone forcefully uncaring to mask the brewing fury inside. “Is it some stupid reason, like a Vulcan ate the last croissant off your plate or something?”

Nero’s head whipped around, eyes burning holes into Jim.

“I am doing this because it must be done,” he growled, “because those condescending pieces of shit who think the entire universe revolves around them should have seen it coming for a long time.”

Jim was a forgiving person by nature, inclined to believe anyone had something worth saving in them. Even in Baran’s crew there were people who simply stepped of the wrong path. But if there were any points of no return, Nero has crossed them all.

“I hope you didn’t jeopardize my living weapon too much,” Nero continued. “Who knows what crap you’ve put in Spock’s brain.”

Jim barely resisted plunging a fist in his face. There would be time for fulfilling his dream later.

“By crap you mean things he should’ve known all along? Some of which were biologically imperative for him?”

Nero jerked one shoulder. “He is alive, meaning none of the things he didn’t have were _imperative_.”

“What makes _you_ an expert in bringing up Vulcan children?”

Nero looked at him like _Jim_ was the absolute idiot here. “I read a book.”

“You read a WikiHow article,” Jim spit out.

“What’s a Wiki—whatever,” he shrugged. “If you didn’t show him the crap you did he would even be reusable – but now he will have to die after fulfilling his purpose.”

Bile rose in his throat.

Time to drop the pretence.

“If you touch him I will do everything within my power to hunt you down and destroy you, even if it will be the last thing I do,” Jim growled.

Nero nodded, contemplative. “You said something along those lines to Lester too, didn’t you. ‘Touch him and I will end you.’ Good, stay angry. Or scared, both works.”

He motioned towards the exit where through the opened door he saw the cloaking device around a tiny ship deactivate.

***

Spock thanked T’Pring when they arrived at the colony’s transportation hub – much smaller than the one in San Francisco, and a lot quieter. Everyone’s moves were swift and graceful, the air was interspersed only with quiet bits of conversation and ruffling of clothes.

T’Pring offered to take Spock to wherever he wanted to go next in her personal hovercar, but he refused: he didn’t want to involve anyone else at his investigation. He had a solid theory forming in his mind, and all he needed now was some bits of information to complete the picture. He was given T’Pring’s comm number she told him to use if the need arose – a strange display of kindness after her obvious dissatisfaction with Spock’s lack of knowledge about his Vulcan heritage – so he decided he would not bother her.

He saved the number anyway.

The place they arrived to has greeted them with early dusk. The air was relaxingly hot, and Spock revelled in the fact that he didn’t have to control his internal temperature constantly anymore.

The heat rolled over the city in quiet waves, and when Spock and T’Pring exited the hub they were met with rows of skyscrapers brushed by the light of a thin crescent moon. The moon was made habitable, T’Pring said, by creating artificial atmosphere and gravity.

The city was all correct geometrical forms, straight lines, light beige colours, and symmetrical proportions. It was aesthetically pleasing on some deeply rooted, subconscious level, and if this was the place Spock had to call home from now on, he was satisfied with the choice.

He glanced to the side: T’Pring was watching the moon, expression even more unreadable than before. Wondering why she was partaking in such a wasteful act, Spock asked her if she was mentally preparing to go to the conference; and in response she only glanced at him once, black eyes sharp like a dagger, crystals glistening in her hair like the ice from Delta Vega, and said, “Goodbye, Mr. Spock.”

Thus, Spock was left to his own devices. Exploring ShiKahr, the city they arrived to, was palpably more comfortable: there were no curious stares (only once or twice at his Terran-style clothes and the zinnia stuck in his buttonhole), no comments or unwanted touches. This was where he was supposed to fit right in.

At least, physically.

Mentally, there were still uncomfortable moments: the signs written in Vulcan script he couldn’t read, or the fact he couldn’t talk to anyone in fear of them being repelled by his imperfections. But he knew that just like with deduction, his personal opinion didn’t matter. He must accept this world even if it didn’t want to accept him.

He has passed three separate security checks on his way leading to the departure area with no complications, because he had no personal belongings other than Jim’s communicator. The moon was visible through the tall window, and Spock looked at it again in contemplation. There was little to no chance of a terrorist arriving to the colony, unless they wished to take risks; and to orbit the planet for the time long enough to set up the weapon would sure lead to being discovered.

But the moon was different. Heavily guarded too, sure, but still accepting all sorts of scientists from different worlds. It would be tricky, but with proper timing it was possible. It was the only logical place to set the enhancer on; perhaps after influencing its transferral from the planet in advance.

Besides, placing the weapon on the  previously non-existent moon to be above the planet in order to destroy the rest of its inhabitants was _symbolic._ Just like the Romulan ships were stationed on Delta Vega – something both the investigation of the event and the Delta Vega logs Scotty has copied into Jim’s communicator said – to observe the destruction, it made sense to be as close as possible to the eye of the new storm.

As Spock walked towards a station where a shuttle would take him to the moon, he took care of ridding himself of any subjectiveness he had once again. There was an intricate work ahead: searching for a place where the machine would most likely be hidden (certainly not out in the open where anyone could see it), and he would do it even if it meant combing through every corner of the moon: he was the reason it was here.

For once he was glad Jim made up a reason not to join him: his bold approach could only interfere with Spock’s plan and result in punching a xenophobe or something equally counterproductive.

The moon was not at all different from the planet: same strict architecture, same colour palette; the only difference was the clear dome covering the entirety of the surface creating artificial atmosphere, and the passages connecting every single building like a web.

The hub reminded him of the Earth one – buzzing with activity and representatives of different races speaking their native languages. Out of an observation window the moon surface and the planet raising on the horizon were visible. The buildings there lower, only a few stood out: the hub, several convention centres, and constructions supporting the dome.

Once near the convention centre, Spock paused, watching people trickling in and out. He could hear faint sounds of a song being played inside, something about building the wall, work, and freedom5 – but it was so far away even Spock couldn’t distinguish the words.

The signs were written in both Vulcan and Standard here (judging by their brand-new state they were made specifically for this conference), and indicated that the area with music was a banquet hall, where most of the diplomats were heading at the moment.

From the snippets of conversations he could hear he knew the speakers were talking about peace: another symbolic statement to be disrupted.

“Any news from Sarek?” An old Vulcan was asking.

“He has apologized for the delay and said his emergency has not yet been resolved,” his young companion replied, typing in her padd.

“Perhaps we should start the conference without him,” was his response. “His wife’s emotionalism is hardly an emergency.”

“I agree,” the third Vulcan stepped in, “she must have had an insignificant problem and blew it out of proportion. However, starting without our head spokesperson would be disrespectful.”

The first Vulcan spoke again, shaking his head, “I do not care. The sooner the outworlders leave the better – some disturbances have been reported already, we are jeopardizing peace with our own hands. We have to get this charade of a World Peace Conference over with.”

The other replied something – but Spock chose not to eavesdrop further.

Could the convention centre be the place to hide the weapon? He estimated the possibility to be approximately 63% - not high enough to warrant an immediate investigation. He had to observe the other possibilities first.

Of course, asking “what is the weakest element in your defences” would most likely arise suspicions.

Spock didn’t waste another moment and slipped inside the building, bypassing the diplomats and going straight to the doorway that would lead into a maintenance corridor. A few moments later the access codes were broken – just the way Jim showed him when using Scotty’s shuttle to teach him how to break the lock on his house – and he set to inspect the network enveloping the entire planet. Humans may be irrational, but there were things he could learn from them, like unconventional means of entering a locked area.

***

Almost every room above the third floor where the living areas were could be considered the archives Lester mentioned, that’s why Spock spent a lot of time – more than he could afford – examining and resealing every room he encountered. Another problem was that he had no idea how the enhancer looked: the official reports he found only mentioned it being made of stone; he dived deep into the reports of the entire expedition’s findings, finally finding a sample of the script written on the stone’s surface – the most he could get to use as a clue.

Finally, on an uninhabited floor, a door inconspicuously labelled N704 hissed opened – and Spock knew this was what he was looking for.

Spock stepped into the dark empty hall carefully and got a distinct impression that it was arranged like a storage room of a person who didn’t have that many things to store. The door swished closed behind him, reinforcing itself automatically, and Spock walked forward, quiet steps echoing in the eerily silent area. The windows showed the view of the planet’s surface, from the seventh floor he could see the silhouettes of the few people who passed the area below the building.

“Lights.”

Soft blue overhead lights shone at his command, and among the few objects he recognized the mind enhancer immediately: a two meters tall black plate made of something akin to polished granodiorite covered in carvings resembling the ones he saw in the report. Spock ran his fingers over the smooth surface briefly and took a padd lying nearby, containing a note saying the item was to be transported for exposition and asking to treat it with care. The note was thirteen months old.

There was no extra security around it; like Spock himself, the only value the enhancer had was as the element of a more complex mechanism.

This was it, he found what he was looking for. Spock had one job: to prevent another genocide, and he would finish it no matter what. And maybe, just maybe, if he is successful the society will think he deserves a chance to become a part of it.

A sudden shout reverberated through the hall, and Spock nearly dropped the padd.

A few confused moments later he realized the hall was still empty, and shouting and drumming sounds were coming from the communicator.

“ _INTERGALACTIC, PLANETARY!!_ ” It screamed, and Spock fumbled to silence it hastily – the music6 was loud enough to be heard by someone happening to be passing by.

Surprise was due to the fact that this was the first time he saw someone _calling_ on Jim’s communicator: the caller wasn’t identified, just an unknown number, and for a moment Spock debated whether he should pick up; after all, he couldn’t possibly imitate Jim’s voice.

In the end, he decided to drop all pretence.

“Spock here,” he said, pressing the communicator close.

“Hello, Spock.”

Spock felt his muscles locking up. He froze in place, the too familiar voice in the communicator ringing in his ears. It was an illogical reaction that he blamed on his lack of meditation lately.

“Greetings.”

His hand shook. Nero knew Jim’s communicator’s number.

Nero knew Jim.

“You must be within range for the direct communication to function,” Spock continued. To his own ears, he sounded unaffected; but who knew what an observer could hear in his voice.

“I am,” the response was, as confident as it always was. “I see you found the enhancer.”

“And I presume you found the stone.”

“Yes, James Kirk has delivered it to me. I did warn you not to trust anybody. Not even me. And especially not him.”

“I know,” Spock said, pressing the communicator in a painfully tight grip at the sound of Jim’s name. He had to play along. “I have made a mistake.”

There were muffled sounds in the background, but no matter how much Spock strained, the only thing he recognized was the hum of a shuttle coming to a stop.

“What do you feel?” Nero asked, matter-of-factly. Spock heard a click of a turned off engine. “Disappointment?”

“I feel nothing.”

“Your companion betrayed you. _I_ betrayed you.”

“As expected of humans. And you,” he inhaled deeply. “How do you know this number?”

“What is the logical conclusion?”

“Either you have had it all along or a third party revealed it to you.”

“And the highest probability is?...”

“The first one,” Spock grasped the communicator tighter. It was the logical answer, logic told him to believe it. “It was expected,” he repeated; only with enormous will his voice stayed unaffected, and cut the line off, unsure if he could keep the pretense up.

Nero could be lying, was most likely lying in hopes of initiating an emotional response, and because that’s just what he _did_ , and Spock knew Jim’s mind and how many admirable qualities the man possessed, he simply wasn’t the one for betrayal... But at the same time believing it was a lot easier than to hope for a miracle where Jim decided to stay on Spock’s side.

Spock mentally berated himself for not following through with his original whim to go straight to the convention centre. If only he took a risk – but now wasn’t the time for regret. He had to focus.

Spock’s exemplary hearing picked up footsteps echoing in the hall; he knew he had five seconds to prepare for company. He glanced at the machine. Then at the list of contacts in the opened communicator.

One second.

Steady in his decision, his fingers dropped on the screen to type in a message quickly.

He snapped the communicator shut just in time as the doors opened.

As Jim stepped in, for a moment Spock couldn’t deny the cold rush of despair – but then Jim’s expression contracted, and he jerked forward, shouting, “Spock!! I didn’t betray you, you have to trust me—”

Relief washed over Spock, but he stomped it down, instead focusing on the complete stone of Gol in Nero’s hands and a phaser trained on Jim.

Spock felt too much – fear for Jim’s life at the forefront – just the slightest bit of emotion would be his downfall. He had to save him; right now Jim was the odd man out, expendable in Nero’s eyes.

So he ignored Jim apart from a quick visual examination to ensure he was not injured – and averted his gaze from the hurt and desperation in his expression.

“Spock, I’m te—”

“Greetings,” Spock spoke over him, looking at Nero, who had a distinct air of exasperation around him. Now he didn’t see a provider and protector; just a liar and a murderer. “I presume you have come to blackmail me.”

Nero tapped a finger on the stone once.

“Not necessarily. There are other means of convincing you.”

The relationship, the betrayal, the lies – those didn’t matter. Only the facts. He could not feel. He would not feel. After all, this was the only thing he was good for.

If he repeated this like a mantra and didn’t look at Jim he would be free from the influence of the stone.

“James, clear your mind of emotions,” Spock said, eyes not leaving the resonator, trying to figure out how it worked from afar.

“What?” Jim asked. Despite not seeing him, Spock could feel Jim’s gaze burying in him. He should’ve known this request was futile, asking Jim to repress his emotions was asking him to give up a larger part of himself. Still, he could try.

“The stone of Gol forms a psychic attack by redirecting negative emotions at yourself. Clear your mind.”

“Believe me, I know how the stone works. Sorry, can’t,” Jim growled. “I hate this guy. And I can’t just suddenly stop hating him.”

“In that case, please do not get involved, James,” Spock said, still not looking at him. He was afraid a single look would unravel the feeble coil he put on the fear. “Nero, release him. The innocent should not be involved in your vengeance. He does not even belong to either of our species.”

“Why should I do that when you were having an emotional moment,” Nero hummed, gesturing between them.

His fingers laid on the semicircle part of the resonator; it must be the part that controlled it.

“I am an instrument,” he said. “I cannot have emotions.”

But, of course, the man who spent Spock’s entire life alongside him wasn’t easily tricked.

“I know who you are better than you do,” Spock could hear condescension and an eyeroll in Nero’s voice. “Every bit of information you got was filtered by me. Even the drill didn’t have an input of so much resources as you did. Then again, living weapons are always more expensive because they’re so effective, so the least you could do is be grateful you lived till twenty and make the spending worth it.”

It was his confidence that was the most unsettling – the same confidence Spock always experienced when he touched his mind, it was genuine, and it meant Nero thought he’s already succeeded. And why wouldn’t he feel that way? After all, he had twenty years, even longer, to develop every detail of his plan.

“Of course, I am expecting you to come willingly,” Nero continued. “This place couldn’t have been taken by anyone else but you. This is your destiny. After all, you are the only telepath strong enough to withhold the pressure and not die in the first few seconds.”

Spock chose not to comment on the illogical concept of destiny that was non-existent on every occasion but when Jim was concerned.

“There are others more proficient in art of mind than me,” he replied.

Nero raised both eyebrows. “Who?”

“T’Mira, for example,” Spock said; but as soon as he said it he realized it wasn’t true: seeing T’Pring meant he was capable of breaking T’Mira’s defenses.

Nero shook his head. “It’s not about being trained. You wouldn’t be standing here right now if it wasn’t your birth right; the sole reason for your existence is being a part of this mechanism. The only Vulcan hybrid who lived past the first few days of their creation; your dual nature has given your mind the capacity the enhancer requires. I have been following the ambassador’s attempts to combine his DNA with his human wife’s, and I knew it from the moment you were born.”

At least he didn’t try to push a lie about wanting the best for him, that would’ve been futile.

Spock frowned. “It does not matter who I am or who you were planning me to become. I may deserve the treatment you are giving me, and I may be, as you said, destined to be alone, but it does not mean I will allow you to use my mind to murder the innocent,” unable to hold it any longer, he added, “You killed T’Mira.”

“I did.”

“And Sivorek, and everyone else I knew in my childhood.”

Jim looked between the two of them, fury twisting his features, bursting with the words he kept inside.

The tip of Nero’s phaser has moved three millimeters away from Jim’s temple. If Spock would just keep Nero busy he could hope to avert his attention from Jim completely to let him escape.

“Yes,” Nero said, “I couldn’t allow them to leave knowing about your existence. But with that said, they knew they would die by my hand the moment they crossed the threshold of your house,” he shrugged, as if such a trivial matter didn’t deserve to even be discussed. “We had a deal, a very merciful deal – they teach you whatever was necessary and die, and in return I don’t kill their families. So you see, it wasn’t me who killed them, it was you.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Jim finally snapped, the venom in his tone making up for the minutes spent in silence. “Even an amoeba with half a braincell wouldn’t believe you trying to make Spock into a bad guy.”

“Amoebas do not have brain cells,” Spock corrected automatically while trying to signal him subtly to keep quiet.

“So what, destroying an entire race wasn’t enough?!” Jim continued as if he didn’t hear or see him.

“That’s the problem,” Nero pointed out, “I didn’t destroy an _entire_ race.”

He swiped his hand with the phaser over to the window where New Vulcan ascending was visible and promptly pointed it at Jim’s head again.

“I would wait another twenty years if it meant seeing every last one of those unfeeling bastards die from the thing they despise the most – their emotions.”

Spock mentally gathered himself, putting a tighter lock on his emotions.

Nero must’ve seen it, because he continued, “You’re a hybrid, Spock, only _half_ -Vulcan, that’s all there is. No genetic anomaly that gives you superpowers. It’s physically impossible for you to control yourself fully. I did tell you, you were born for this.”

Spock stepped closer, refusing to back down. Jim tensed, as if readying himself to leap any second.

“If you will not come willingly,” the tip of the phaser pushed at Jim’s temple, and Jim scowled at it as if it was nothing but an annoying mosquito, “I will kill him.”

“That is an illogical threat,” Spock said coldly.

“What?”

“That is an illogical threat,” Spock repeated. “Essentially, you are offering me to assist you in murdering thousands in exchange for a life of one man. That is obviously a highly illogical and unequal trade.”

“But…” Nero was seemingly at loss of words for a moment. “Isn’t he your friend?”

Spock allowed his eyebrows to climb up in an incredulous expression, nonverbal ‘How can you ask me that’ loud and clear.

“I have met him _yesterday_.”

Nero shrugged, throwing a dismissing look at Jim, and for a moment Spock thought he managed to abduce the danger away from him.

What a mistake.

“Well, it doesn’t matter. Your pacifist mindset wouldn’t be able to handle this anyway.”

With a sweep of his arm that shouldn’t be so casual, so simple, he pointed the phaser at Jim’s stomach and pulled the trigger.

A blast! – and Jim screamed, falling on his knees, clutching the wound colouring his shirt so unnaturally red.

Spock jerked forward, before he could stop himself, unable and unwanting to squash the flash of fear; out of the corner of his eye he saw Nero directing the stone at him –

It was too late to erase the fear.

The first moment of clarity came when he was against the block of the mind enhancer, head hitting the carved stone —

— And then his mind exploded.

It was akin to the moment the uncontrollable mass of water crashed them in the sewers – he couldn’t breathe, losing all control, capable only of giving up to the stream crashing into him, through him, dissolving his mind into smeared presence—

The faint awareness he sometimes sensed in his meditations was ruthlessly ripped open, expanding into a network of full connections to every single Vulcan in the galaxy, each link turning into its own stream of water smashing into Spock’s mind, overlapping with one another, fighting, violently wiping away every streak of consciousness, again and again and again—

He was a captain of an exploration vessel, confident in her work and suppressing the sadness washing over her every time she looked at the sky – he was a microbiologist for whom this was the only day her shameful emotions were justified – he was an architect living on Orion and helping the Orions with his knowledge in an act of pure altruism – he was a child attending the Memorial Day and thinking its concept was illogical – he was a mother, a separatist, who said the day was the Federation’s handout, planting a seed of distrust in the child’s mind – he was a professor who hated, hated, _hated_ the Romulans but never allowed to make it show – he was an ambassador to Earth, worried about his wife who’s just told him the most _unbelievable thing_ —

There was screaming – could’ve been Spock’s, or anyone else’s, he couldn’t tell, because every new hit chipped off another piece of his consciousness, overloading, turning him into a cog in the mechanism—

And _then_ , agonizingly slowly, his mind began to adjust. The roaring links were calming down, and Spock could separate the consciousness belonging to different Vulcans. If he focused, he could recognize the minds of the Vulcans he knew: T’Pring was looking through the reports of her crewmembers, T’Sen was contemplating the loss of her wife... With the last piece of mind that still belonged to him, Spock realized that it was only the beginning. It was the _mind enhancer_ working, the stone of Gol has not entered the system yet.

And then it did.

He could feel every bit of the buried emotions wrenched out of the thousands of Vulcans, and all he could do was desperately search for a small corner in the blown capacity of his mind to keep his consciousness intact – something like a warm thrill of confusion he associated with Jim’s presence.

He felt helpless, and he hated it – and as soon as he realized it the helplessness and hatred were multiplied by the stone, which made him even more helpless, which was amplified, and looped, and looped, and looped – until only with an incredible force of will Spock halted the cycle.

Spock knew everything he would feel would turn against him; so he focused on the pain instead: after all, pain wasn’t an emotion but a simple physical reaction.

He thought of T’Mira again, but not of anger for her murder – of her teachings, of her knowledge of the stone of Gol and the techniques she told him: the ones he was certain would help him be safe from the resonator. Only now did he realize that T’Mira’s memory has carried on with him like a beacon in the dark.

And only after that, after putting the strongest possible shields around his mind, strengthening it to the point of being impenetrable and making absolutely certain he would remain coherent he dared to look at Jim.

His internal clock told him that mere seven seconds have passed.

It was too little time for the stomach wound to become lethal, he told himself.

His gaze slid past Nero (refusing to feel betrayal), who was watching Spock like a fascinating scientific experiment that finally came to fruition, onto his hands – free from the stone now inserted into the enhancer – and the phaser, now hooked on his belt, and down, down at the red staining Jim's fingers pressed against his stomach, and the fear and anger in his eyes.

Spock reinforced his shields; of course he would be frightened, of course he would be angry – there was no other way but to accept that he failed Jim.

He tried to open his mouth to say something, but keeping his eyes open was already a straining activity on its own, and no sound came out.

Resolve flashed through Jim’s eyes, and slowly, not making a sound, he lifted himself with a free arm – out of Nero’s range of vision, who’s already crossed him out as a thing that’s lost importance, and his bloodied hand reached out towards Nero’s belt.

Everything happened in a split second – he grabbed the phaser, swinging himself away from Nero’s reach and firing it at the enhancer.

The connections in Spock’s mind were cut off instantly as the explosion rocked the plateau, and Spock was thrown forward as the bits of rock showered him, slicing his cheek, hitting the back of his head, and scattering on the floor. With arms thrown out in preparation to break the fall and eyes squeezed shut, he allowed his mind to adjust to not being blown out of proportion.

Then, along with the destruction he heard a wince, and a phaser falling on the floor, and as he opened his eyes, the inner eyelid protecting from the stone dust and blood trickling down, he took in the two figures crouched on the floor, and the outline of the stone of Gol hitting the marble – at that moment, he realized that by destroying the enhancer Jim has freed the resonator to spread its influence on everyone present.

He saved Spock’s mind and neutralized Nero in one move. But at the same time he made himself susceptible to the resonator.

And before the fear for Jim’s life and mind could overtake him, still in the momentum of the fall, Spock surged forward, fingers reaching out to Jim’s temple – the only way to save Jim from the force of the resonator and his injured body was to merge them together.

And then he fell.

***

Spock’s mind was unfolding, stretching wide to accommodate Jim’s consciousness in it – not in the forced way the enhancer did, but the gentle rearranging of the puzzles. He guided the pulse of Jim’s awareness along his own synapses, helping him gather and arrange into a singular image.

Piece by piece, the world hidden in the deepest core of his mind assembled itself around them; Spock eyed it with curiosity, realizing it will not be the same space he usually saw when he went here: this time he wasn’t alone, and Jim’s consciousness was leaking, intertwining, and influencing every bit of the mental landscape.

When Jim opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was sparkling sand his fingers were buried in. He blinked – once, twice – and clutched at his stomach hastily, and to his utter surprise the hand came out clean.

There was no pain of the organs being torn apart by the phaser blast, no hot blood soaking the fabric of his shirt – actually, now that he looked closely, he saw the clothes were different, clean and intact, something more like he used to wear before embarking on the quest of finding the stone of Gol.

Jim raised his head and saw the unfamiliar place: he was on a platform on some sort of rocky mountain, the sand behind him extended into a dark forest, into a pond, and at the horizon, a volcano was visible. It was as if someone threw together a collage of disjointed images and blended the edges.

Spock stood next to him, and when he kneeled to look Jim in the eye, it was like his concern was palpable – not in his expression but as an invisible coil surrounding them for a brief moment and then letting go. Actually, Jim realized that if focused he could sense the invisible embodiments of other, more subtle emotions, including his own; the confusion was the most prominent.

“Did we… beam somewhere?” Jim asked the first thing that came to mind. His mind was clear, but it still seemed... artificial. Unreal.

“That is what a full mind meld looks like, and this image of yourself is your mental projection,” Spock answered; his calmness and confidence wrapped around Jim – a little bit too forceful to be entirely genuine. Jim didn’t have time to ask himself how the hell he was able to tell the difference between genuine and fake emotions, because he was too busy suspecting something was very wrong here.

Spock was looking at him cautiously, as if expecting him to attack – and taking full advantage of the place he was in, he reached for Spock’s thoughts intuitively, and the next moment his eyes widened and he stared at him indignantly.

“I can’t believe you actually thought I was angry at _you_!”

“You anger would be a logical outcome,” Spock replied instantly. “It was my fault you were wounded.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jim said, heated. “It was Nero’s fault because he was the one pulling the trigger.”

Spock’s posture lost some tension, but still was far from relaxed.

“I am not yet proficient in reading emotions,” he confessed.

“Yeah, I figured,” Jim muttered and looked around again. The landscape grew more detailed the more he looked. “If it’s an imaginary world… what’s happening in real life right now?”

“Your body is dying. Soon your brain cells will wither and die as well and your mental projection will disappear.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Please don’t ever become a doctor, you’ve got a horrible bedside manner.”

“I do not intend to,” Spock replied. “My interest in medicine does not extend beyond the basics.”

They were silent for a few seconds, during which Jim inspected the imaginary world further. He cupped some sand in his palm and let it stream down through his fingers. Another oddity he noticed was subdued sensations: although the restless sun shone directly upon them, he didn’t feel the heat, only the pleasant warmth.

The warmth, he realized, he last felt when Spock’s hands wrapped around him in the bay on Narak’es.

The embrace that was meant to be a ploy to steal the communicator.

Jim frowned.

“Why did you do it? The meld,” he specified, remembering the last time they shared minds and realizing Spock had unrestricted access to his thoughts, including the bitterness regarding their parting.

“I assumed it was obvious,” Spock cocked his head to the side. “I hid your mind from the influence of the resonator and physical pain,” he inclined his head and the breeze brought a whisper of affection and gratitude. “Thank you for destroying the enhancer. You have saved ten thousand and sixty-eight members of the Vulcan race.”

Jim shrugged. “Yeah, well. I had to do something to make you understand I wasn’t the bad guy.”

“Jim,” Spock leaned closer. “I merely used the words that I assumed would make Nero release you; I thought you would realize my proficiency in implying by now.”

Jim glanced at him, suspicious; the relief coming before he could stop it.

“I did not say a word of lie,” Spock continued. “Placing a priority on the needs of the many versus the one is the logical way; however, it does not mean I follow it. I apologize if my actions caused you distress,” he allowed a hint of regret to colour his voice: Jim _had_ to understand how genuinely sorry he was for tricking him.

Jim brushed imaginary dust off his jeans.

“Yeah, I was pretty bummed when I thought you’d really believe I’d give up the stone to help that dick break you down,” his anger fleeted around them briefly but dissolved in the bright sunlight.

“I know you are not a traitor, Jim,” Spock said. “I trust you.”

“I’m glad,” a soft smile played on Jim’s lips without his conscious thought. “Although it’s probably a bad idea to trust people who you’ve known for such a short amount of time right away.”

“I did not say I trusted _people_ ,” Spock replied. “I trust _you_.”

Because coexisting inside his mind – the safest place there was – was the highest form of intimacy. Nothing could be hidden under the sunlight, a haven for the one who valued truth and directness above all. Spock, who has never let another mind on this plane, revelled in being able to accept and be accepted, in not having to be afraid of the other’s fear, in the rightfulness and wonderful simplicity of this connection.

It was strange seeing his mindscape like this, but suddenly Spock realised that it looks better now. When he went here before, it was empty, unfinished; but now it was a painting where the artist had made the finishing brush strokes.

“I trust you too,” Jim said.

Which was weird. Jim wasn’t the one for trusting people easily – it was something that came with the job description. Why Spock? Perhaps the meld was messing with Jim’s head – after all, it inflicted this blurry state usually associated with being slightly drunk or a particularly lucid dream.

“I am not influencing your mind,” Spock said, and Jim realized he had to be careful with his thoughts. What if – a chill jolted through him and constricted his throat – what if Spock found something disgusting in his mind, the kind that makes telepaths who were the pinnacle of innocence and goodness run away in fear?...

While he didn’t know what constituted as a perfect mind for a telepath, he realized it was probably a celibate saint who’s spend all their free time and money on charity, and not a lost man with no particular purpose in life, who was selfishly putting himself above all and worked for people who caused misery for who knew how many families—

“Jim,” Spock said, his appalled and confused state obvious in the air, “I would never find anything about you disgusting.”

“That’s what they all say.”

Spock almost sighed, boundlessly confused at Jim’s once again tangible self-hatred.

“You are a fascinating human being, Jim, I am honoured to share this mental landscape with you, and I am grateful for your continuous allowance to keep contact with your mind, as well as the courage you displayed by destroying the enhancer.”

That was delivered with such heart-warming earnestness, Jim was surprised his mental projection didn’t suddenly turn into mush.

Who said Vulcans – or half-Vulcans, if Nero could be trusted – couldn’t do sweet talking.

But—

“As nice as those words are, you could be saying this about any human you encountered first.”

“You seem to assume,” Spock continued,  with arms crossed and the sense of exasperation becoming more evident, “that I learned nothing from my encounters with various species lately. You forget that there were other beings in my life before, no matter how twisted my perceptions of their motivations were; and while my analysis of them is incomplete, it is enough to form an educated opinion. I stand by my earlier words: I am pleased to have _you_ as my guide. Not T’Mira, if she would have been alive, not Dr. McCoy or T’Pring. You alone,” he resorted to uncharacteristic repetition to get his point across.

“Okay...” Jim replied after a pause. It was just so unbelievable.

“Why do you not believe me?” Spock must’ve sensed his thoughts again. “You know I do not lie – and here I simply _cannot_ lie.”

“Well, you can’t just stop thinking about something the moment someone tells you otherwise – you know that,” he smiled weakly.

“Ah, yes, I am familiar with this peculiarity through the interlude involving ghosts and elephants. It is an illogical practice, you should eliminate it.”

“If only it was that simple,” Jim sighed. “I will try. I know you are not lying.”

And Jim shared that feeling; out of all the people he’s met he would choose to be Spock’s guide, not anyone else’s.

Which brought him to another idea.

“Listen, Spock, it’s going to sound really weird, but you are _sure_ we haven’t met before? I know, I know, I told you it’s weird!” He waved his hands when Spock wanted to voice his perfectly logical protest. “It’s just – all of this seems familiar. Like deja vu, but stronger. Like...” Jim waved a hand vaguely, unable to find words to express the sensation; Spock tilted his head, listening to the emotions Jim was projecting.

“It might be another side effect of our compatibility,” Spock said, and Jim glanced at him curiously, surprised by the uncertainty of his words. “I cannot make an accurate assessment without a point of reference. I have no previous experience with these kinds of connections.”

Annoyance coiled around them.

“That’s okay, I’m sure you’ll figure this out,” Jim said, hand reflexively reaching out to brush against Spock’s, only to retreat in the last moment.

And then, to Jim’s _utter_ surprise, Spock caught his retreating hand and squeezed it.

Jim’s eyes widened in shock at the initiated contact; he was pretty sure he was gaping.

“It is my mind,” Spock answered the unasked question, and in this shared mindscape it was the only answer they needed, the answer to every possible query.

This place meant all the fears becoming nought, a purest form of communication, like a magical land of wish fulfillment.

Jim looked at their joined hands and raised them to his eye level.

“You’re warm,” he said, curious. “Does it mean your mind is warm, or am I simply imagining it?”

“These forms are our projections, that is why they have the same physical characteristics as we do in reality, they are our default, normal parameters. If you have any more questions do not hesitate to ask, I will answer the best to my ability.”

“I have a ton!” Jim’s eyes lit up. “If it’s an imaginary world – can you change the landscape? Can I change the way I look? Can you read my thoughts through my hand? Can you create things out of thin air here? Is this a default place you’re going to or did you create if specifically for me?”

A streak of Spock’s amusement fluttered in the air.

“Yes; yes; both yes and no, I can sense your mind but from the mental link instead of the skin contact, however, I will refrain from reading your thoughts unless you wish me to; yes; no, this mindspace is created by both of our minds. It belongs to you as much as it does to me.”

“Oh!” Jim exclaimed, following the explanation with ease he couldn’t have in real life. Perhaps here they didn’t even need words. “Does it mean I can imagine something like… a dragon?”

“Theoretically,” Spock answered carefully, not wanting to give Jim an idea to test his mental capabilities. “Although I fail to understand the reason for creating a fantasy creature.”

“Because I can, and it’s going to be awesome?”

Jim looked at the sky, and a spaceship appeared, wheezing above them; Spock recognized the Enterprise.

“I do not recommend it, it will drain your energy,” Spock said, and added a falsely hopeful statement. “Perhaps another time, when your well-being does not depend on your calmness.”

“Alright, alright,” Jim grumbled, and the ship disappeared immediately. “So what do you propose we do then?”

“Find peace,” Spock said, leading them towards the garden that was growing around them as if fast-forwarded video. Jim recognized some flowers he liked, like zinnias, and guessed it was his part of the mindscape. Their hands were still intertwined, and neither of them made any effort to stop it.

Jim squinted into the distance: the space wasn’t, in fact, endless as he originally thought. Far, far away on the horizon there was something dark surrounding them, something moving and glinting – and in utter surprise he realized those were masses of water rising like an enormous infinite tidal wave.

“The destruction of the mindscape,” Spock explained. “I am under the influence of the stone of Gol too.”

“What happens once it reaches us?”

“My mind is destroyed and yours along with it. I could expel yours back into your body, but it is dying, and it will serve no purpose.”

“Yeah, I’d rather stay here with you. Don’t you have a mind trick up your sleeve, like in the sewers?”

“I do not know anything that could be done. I have an illogical hope I will manage – what is the colloquial expression? – play it by the nose. I do not wish you to die, Jim.”

“By the _ear_ , Spock,” Jim smiled weakly, squeezing his hand. What was it, the second time they were in this situation? – perhaps they really were meant to die together. And he would be okay with it – if only they were given more time to spend by each other’s side. Like a few years, or a century.

The garden unfolded before them with every step they took. The closest comparison Jim could find was Starfleet’s latest invention, holodeck – but no, even holodeck would not be able to reproduce this. The images meant nothing; the feeling and beliefs that painted the landscape did.

“I didn’t know Vulcans could do that.”

“I have spent many years in confinement, with my mind as the only company. I have learned to alter my mindscape in any shape I want.”

“Are you sure this is a collaborative work of both of us?” Jim asked. “Because personally, I don’t see anything representing me here.”

“In your opinion, what would represent your psyche?”

Jim shrugged, “Corn, a farm; I don’t know. Maybe a goat.”

He concentrated – and miraculously, some air condensed together into a wobbly figure right before their eyes, and then transformed into a real goat chewing a corn cob.

It stared at Jim with empty eyes, knocked its head into Spock’s thigh, and let out a low bleat.

Spock’s head whipped around, and he glared at Jim while shooing the goat away.

“Please do not waste your energy on farm animals,” he said sternly, and Jim raised his hands in surrender.

The goat disappeared as soon as Jim stopped looking at it; perhaps he needed years of training like Spock to be able to create fully functioning objects.

They walked under an arc grown with flowers, and that’s when Spock stopped and turned around to face him fully. Like a traditional wedding, an involuntary thought appeared. He wondered which one of them created this part or if it was merely a coincidence.

Spock let go of his hand, but the loss of contact wasn’t unbearable: it simply transferred into the air interspersing the land. Being both in contact and not, parted and never parted – it was a strange sensation beyond words.

“This is you, Jim,” Spock said, picking a honeysuckle branch off the arc. He faced Jim again and inserted it into the chest pocket of his jacket, only barely upturned corners of lips an indication he remembered Jim’s mirrored action. “I would not be able to recreate these specimens accurately because the only images I am capable of recreating are the ones I already saw – in real life or in holographic pictures. Pay attention to the details and you will see how they are affected by your experiences.”

There was a meadow beyond the arc, with something glistening; Jim recognized small pond.

Jim crouched next to it, enjoying the sunlight reflecting off the wrinkles of the waves that were rippling despite the lack of wind. He went fishing with McCoy once, with tents, a fireplace, and everything; Jim caught a single carp that day.

Under the water, a silver back of a fish glittered.

He slid his fingers into the water; it was like touching warm condensed air, no wetness at all. This definitely came from Jim’s memory, but it seemed like Spock’s mind was reluctant in recreating its properties.

“I do not… enjoy water,” Spock replied to his thoughts, mental voice disgruntled. “At all.”

Jim’s lips twitched.

“If we get out of this – once we get out of this,” he corrected himself, “I will take you to a Risan beach. Maybe that’ll change your mind.”

“I highly doubt it, unless the water on that planet differs in properties compared to the one on Earth.”

Jim hummed and allowed the fish slide its slick body right underneath his fingertips.

“You crossed paths with Nero on Earth, and he made you join him of the trip towards the colony,” Spock said, and Jim nodded in agreement. “How was the journey?”

Of course, Jim sensed his unease and worry about what the trip could possibly involve, that’s why his answer was humourous.

“I don’t remember most of it. He knocked me out with the stone after the third time I started singing _Mr. Brightside_ ,” he shrugged. “Well, Bones always said my singing could be considered a weapon of mass destruction, so that’s to be expected.”

Jim couldn’t really fight him, so he decided to annoy him instead.

Huh. Nero showed much more resilience than Spock thought he possessed.

“His ship is really cool, it’s almost unfair,” Jim added. “Seems like he forced some brilliant minds to work on it. Murder was probably involved.”

“It is most likely,” Spock replied.

Every step they took was like a trigger for new plant life to unfold, vines weaving over their heads created a pleasant green shadow. Huge heavy leaves drooped over them, occasionally swiping over their hair and leaving quickly disappearing droplets of fragrant juice. Jim knew the smell well: anise oil, something his mother used in her perfume when he was a baby. Experimentally, he leaned to smell a purple star-shaped flower he has never seen before: he sensed nothing, which was logical, since the flower must’ve come from Spock’s memory of seeing its image only.

The end of the garden led them onto another cliff overseeing an enormous desert. Jim kicked some sand off the edge, and the breeze caught it, making it glitter in the air.

“This place is amazing,” Jim said, spinning around in attempt to catch every detail. “Can we stay here forever?”

Their time was running out, Spock knew it. If appropriate medical help wouldn’t be applied, Jim’s organism as well as his mind would cease to function.

Knowing Jim would sense his fear, Spock destroyed the feeling.

One again, he didn’t lie when he said, “You may stay here as long as you like.”

Jim smiled briefly. “Forever it is then.”

They sat on the edge of the cliff observing the painted sky, not quite touching. Perhaps it was merely his imagination, but Jim could sense the imprints of Spock’s fingers were they were pressed to his face in the real world. The real world that seemed so far away now. Maybe this was where they truly belonged; and all the phasers and death and blood spilling on the shining floor was just a bad dream?...

The sun was going down towards its inevitable disappearance behind the mountains and the volcano. Jim’s gaze trailed after it.

“You know,” Jim said absent-mindedly, “I’ve always enjoyed sunrises more than sunsets.”

He stared at the golden circle with no intention of doing _anything_ , when in the amazing display, the sun paused and started creeping back up.

Jim looked at Spock in amazement, only to find Spock’s eyes already fixed on him.

“Did you do that? Or did _I_ do that?”

“Perhaps we both did it,” Spock said, with no intention of looking back at the sun.

“Awesome,” Jim tilted his head up to catch the last make-believe sunlight and closed his eyes.

Spock, wary of the destruction brewing on the horizon, didn’t let himself blink. And, as it turned out, for a good reason.

Jim was silent. Spock was reaching out to him very minute to check if he slipped unconscious; he would’ve engaged him in a conversation, but he knew Jim had to accumulate some energy of his own. With his eyes open, Spock could gauge how much time has passed, both in the mindscape and the real world – but Jim couldn’t.

“How long have we been here?” Jim asked lazily later, when he finally opened his eyes, aimlessly stroking his fingers through the yellow grass sticking out of the sand.

“Try to estimate,” Spock said carefully. An answer would provide an insight on Jim’s condition.

“Dunno,” he shrugged. “A couple hours maybe? Or ten minutes? Hard to tell.”

This was worse than Spock expected. Unable to tell time at all was a symptom of active destruction of cells and slowing biological processes.

“Jim,” he said softly. Jim replied with a non-committal hum and looked at Spock blearily, unable to focus but still not realizing something was wrong. “You have to concentrate.”

“Concentrate…” Jim echoed, as if trying to remember the meaning of the word. “On what?”

Spock looked around hurriedly, focusing all his mental efforts on producing a replica of a real life object – and there it was, an old wooden lyre sitting by his side.

“You expressed interest in my music-making,” he said, tuning the instrument. “Perhaps I can play and sing you a song I have recently made a transcription for a lyre of.”

“Oh?” Jim straightened, obviously interested and more focused now. Good.

“You will have to concentrate on the music and words, do not miss any of them. Can you promise me this?”

“Yeah, Spock, of course. Whatever you want,” Jim smiled at him. In the shared mindscape the words rang true, transcending the boundaries of this single situation.

_Whatever you want._

“I want you to listen,” Spock said quietly, and without further ado, strung the lyre, forming a melody.

_“I’ll make it quick for you to know,_

_Splashing my feelings is not where I’m the best at;_

_I’ve never told you many things that I should,_

_The words are on my lips, it’s time to tell you the truth_ _ 7 _ _...”_

Jim didn’t know the song – or maybe he did, but was too out of it to recognize, either way, he didn’t sing along, just rocked his head back and forth gently, gaze never wavering from Spock’s fingers brushing the strings.

“You look good with a lyre,” Jim muttered and nodded to himself. Spock looked up to him without pausing the melody. “Just like I thought you would. You seem like the type.”

Spock looked down, unsure how to respond to being accused to belonging to a type.

But through Jim’s emotional state he understood it was meant to be a positive statement, so he responded, “You seem like the type of a good listener.”

“Wow, we were practically made for each other,” Jim murmured as his eyelids drooped.

This was the last coherent thing he heard from Jim. Because eventually, his attention started to drift.

His blinks became longer, and when the final accord resounded through imaginary space, his eyes closed and didn’t open again.

“Jim,” Spock called hurriedly. His worry was warranted, but he subdued it anyway, knowing Jim could feel it here, and he couldn’t allow more stress to be bestowed on him.

He disregarded the lyre – without focus to give it energy, it disappeared immediately – and grasped Jim’s hand between the two of his own.

“Jim!”

“Sorry,” he slurred, slumping down on Spock’s shoulder, “it seems I’m not as unbreakable as I like to think.”

“Jim, you have to stay awake,” Spock urged, and Jim jerked weakly.

“Believe me, I’m trying to… But everything’s foggy,” he mumbled. “Just tell me if I suddenly start dissolving, okay?” With this, he went still, only ragged breaths were pushed out into Spock’s neck.

There was no other word for it – Spock panicked.

He couldn’t let Jim’s mind into his own body at the risk of killing him, couldn’t let him stay here, they were in a trap – he needed a jolt –

And without knowing what he was trying to accomplish he did the first reflexive thing that came to mind: he pressed his fingers to Jim’s meld points and _pushed_ , diving deeper in his mind.

Deeper.

And deeper.

The mindscape around them was wiped clean, consumed by rough brushstrokes of total darkness where nothing existed –

Jim gasped and spluttered, as if he’s been underwater and Spock has just restarted his heart – his consciousness slammed back into him with surprising force.

For a moment, there was nothing around him, and then senses slowly started to trickle back: touch was first – Spock’s hot hand still wrapped around his, Jim squeezed it tighter...

 _“Spock,”_ he tried to say, and that was the switch that turned on the sight and hearing.

The darkness blossomed into colours, but instead of solidifying into concrete forms they drifted around like paint dripped in water. Constantly changing, no moment was the same; the colours seemed to be unable to stay fixed. There was no landscape or any objects at all, it was a lot more abstract, and yet Jim knew some of the colours represented him – the whirl of streaks and sparks – and some Spock – the steady subtly shifting glow. Jim and Spock drifted through them, floating in nothingness. Or maybe they stayed still and it was the colours that moved.

There was no relativity.

“Where are we?”

“I do not know...” Spock answered. The silence was pressing him like a lead block. “I can only speculate.”

“Do you think this can be our subconscious?” Jim suggested, kind of afraid to see his worst fears and memories manifesting here.

“No,” Spock said immediately. “Both consciousness and subconscious were represented in the first layer, and those are always the things I am capable of controlling. This realm is out of my control,” he focused intently on trying to produce the lyre again, but the matter refused to cooperate. He paused thoughtfully. “It is more likely that this is a unique situation produced by our mental compatibility, my abnormal levels of telepathy, and your mind’s dynamics.”

“Okay, sounds great,” Jim said, once again wondering about how everything seemed like it was meant to be. The openness, the connection – neither of those bothered him anymore. “So… How do we get out of here?”

“I do not know,” Spock repeated, regret filling the air. “I admit to not being aware of this technique even existing.”

“Why did you do it then? And how?”

“Your attention was lapsing, which was a clear sign of decay. I was driven by...”

Spock paused. But he didn’t have to say anything, the answer was apparent. Driven by panic. Desperation.

If Spock had this conversation in reality, he would say a controlled outburst of emotion was a logical decision, because it allowed him to find an alternative where he previously assumed there were none – but here it was an obvious lie, an unneeded evasion.

Jim nodded.

They couldn’t move, the space and the colours didn’t react to them. There was nowhere _to_ move: everything was identical as far as the eye could see.

“Wanna hear a theory?” Jim asked suddenly, surprised this idea didn’t come to him earlier. It explained _everything_. “We’re both dead and this is the afterlife. Most likely heaven, because the company is great,” he raised their joined hands.

Spock exhaled audibly. It’s not a sigh if your projection doesn’t have physical lungs, he told himself.

“We are not dead, Jim.”

“How can you be sure?” He shrugged. “I bet I died right there in the meadow and all of the past two days were just an elaborate hallucination. I mean, meeting a dream guy and travelling across the stars with him? Talk about complete wish fulfilment.”

“I assure you, I am not a ‘dream guy’. I am quite real.”

“That’s exactly what a hallucination would say.”

Jim finally met someone who made him feel good despite the supposed intrusiveness of their connection. Safe. Of course it had to be a pre-mortem dream.

“I did not know what the second meld would lead to,” Spock said. Jim deserved an apology; especially seeing how he was even more delusional now than before. “I regret my actions, Jim. This is exactly why emotions are dangerous; they impaired my judgement.”

Regret was tight and heavy; Jim attempted to relieve it with a touch to the shoulder and a light, “Oh come on, emotions are not that bad.”

A single splash of bright blue brushed across Spock’s face.

“T’Mira has warned me about the danger they induce,” Spock said. “And Nero was also right, in a way. Look at where feeling got us.”

“It’s not like we go around every day surrounded by stones of Gol,” Jim frowned, looking at him with every bit of seriousness. “Spock, people like Nero enjoy using what little good we have left against us, transforming it into something evil and convincing us we shouldn’t feel it. That’s how they trick us into thinking there’s nothing good left at all.”

Spock tilted his head, listening to him aptly.

“But there is.”

“Yeah,” Jim smiled briefly.

“Still, I apologize-“ Spock began, and Jim huffed in irritation with an underlying layer of fondness.

“It’s okay, Spock, really,” Jim smiled. He must’ve known it, his mind was connected to Jim’s directly after all. “Happens all the time. Well, maybe not this _exact_ scenario, but still. Besides, I feel much better now, no lapses or anything, so whatever it is you did – it worked.”

Spock fell silent – what _was_ it that he did and why didn’t T’Mira ever tell him such a technique was possible? Did she simply not know? But wasn’t she supposed to be an adept telepath - wasn’t this why Nero chose her to be the person who would teach Spock everything he needed in such a short amount of time?

Spock’s breathing grew laboured, something akin to panic rising. He has never allowed himself to be in situations that were out of his control, and here, in the entirely unknown domain with no means of escaping, it was worse than drowning.

He knew the realm was influencing him as well, and not in a positive sense: he kept trying to focus on figuring out what this place was, but the ideas were slipping away before he could parse them.

Regret, regret, more regret. It was a trap in its purest sense.

“Spock, look at me,” Jim squeezed his hand, pressure reassuring. “Calm down.”

Spock forced himself to quench the panic, knowing sensing it wouldn’t do Jim any good. With Jim’s firm presence it was easier than he expected.

“It’s okay,” Jim repeated softly, turning and facing Spock more directly. “Even if it gives us a few extra seconds in real life, I have a feeling those are going to be some awesome seconds.”

He raised his hands to hover just above Spock’s cheek, taking time to evaluate his mental state, seeing he didn’t mind – and only then brushed his fingertips over his cheekbone feather-like.

“I don’t regret anything,” he continued. “Do you?”

The reply came with no hesitation.

“No. Only inadvertently causing you to be injured.”

“Good,” Jim’s palm fell down, curling into a fist by his side. “Good.”

Here was the unfairness: Jim spent so many years knowing death would get him sooner rather than later, attempting to conciliate himself with thoughts of how okay it really was, and in the end he even ended up believing it himself – but now all those carefully honed methods of acceptance were vain.

He didn’t _want_ to accept it anymore.

Life waved something to live for in front of him tantalizingly and took it away the next moment; and if he knew anyone was listening, he wouldn’t have hesitated in bringing himself down to begging.

 _Please_ , he thought. _Please, I don’t want to die. Not now._

“Regret’s a bitch,” Jim said to no one in particular. Of course, Spock answered.

“I would not phrase it like that. Although seeing how it is an emotion, I share your negativity towards it. Can I ask you a personal question, Jim?”

“Of course. Anything you want.”

“You keep saying ‘ _Anything you want_ ,’ ” Spock looked at him in confusion. “How can you offer this much?”

Jim shrugged, carefree, as if such a trivial thing was the least of his concern.

“I’m just generous?”

“Not to strangers,” Spock said. “I know how difficult it is for you to trust people. You do not know me. Why do you treat me like this?”

Spock was ready to dig as deep as he could, this seemed like such an important thing to figure out, the root to why they were here.

“Shouldn’t I be asking this question as well? You saved my life multiple times despite knowing me for the exact same amount of time.”

Spock frowned, at loss for words, trying to parse this.

Jim grinned.

“I believe this is called hypocrisy, Spock,” he said, throwing Spock’s own words at him unexpectedly. Spock simply continued looking at him, wordlessly reminding him about the unanswered question. Jim sighed. “It all comes down to one thing: I like you. And call it intuition, or destiny, or whatever you what – I think I liked you from the moment I saw you. Besides... no matter what, I think we should try this out.”

“Try what out?”

“You know, things,” Jim made an erratic gesture.

“Things,” confusion brought Spock to repetition of his companion’s words once more.

“Oh, don’t play coy, you know what I mean, you are in my mind, you can sense all of this,” Jim rolled his eyes again.

And Spock did. He knew that just like Spock himself Jim took their parting with a heavy heart, only motivation to carry it out being the fate of Vulcan and belief they were saving the other. Despite the illogicality of it, or maybe because of it, Jim wanted to pursue the connection that formed between them due to going through so much together, and who cared what time span it took.

Destiny, Jim said. Destiny neither of them truly believed in.

Spock found that for the first time he could remember he didn’t care about the reason.

“I understand what you are saying,” Spock said. “I have no explanation – but I understand what you mean.”

He didn’t elaborate further, knowing Jim could sense his thought process as clearly as the words he was uttering. The speed with which he learned the art of mental communication was truly impressive.

“Like you said,” Jim said quietly, “time runs differently here. Maybe we’ve already known each other for years. Maybe we’re both two hundred years old now, ready to face the next step,” he looked at the distance wistfully, and then suddenly grinned again. “...That is, of course, if we’re not dead already.”

“We are not dead, Jim,” Spock replied without missing a beat.

Jim’s smile grew wider. “You don’t know that,” he said, laughing at the thought as he usually did.

It was meant as a joke – but Jim sensed as the seed of uncertainty his words brought planted in Spock’s mind. After all, he really didn’t know _anything_ about this mindscape, and if he didn’t have any concrete proof something wasn’t real why shouldn’t he believe in it?...

The colours spoke of uncertainty and displeasure about this uncertainty: Spock wasn’t used to his mind disobeying, which caused deep all-consuming shame. This was the area where he _had_ to be superior. But instead, he was more lost than the first time he entered a meld as a one-year-old.

Jim touched Spock’s hand again, smoothing the ripple of his anxiety in the pulsing light interspersing them.

The real world seemed so far away and so unreal – the borders were blurring and he couldn’t know which of the realms was authentic anymore. The one on the Vulcan’s moon had his body bleeding out, the stone of Gol influencing the three minds, the criminal who deserved to die, and Spock, whose pain still echoed in the darkness…

But this one was the point of collision their lives have been building up to since the very beginning.

This one was something he wanted to grasp tightly and never let go, never share it with anyone else but Spock...

If at first Spock was afraid Jim would expel him – a thought that caused almost as much pain as the resonator did – now he was afraid Jim would weave them permanently with his thoughts. His attachment and desire to prolong the experience were strong and seemed to resonate within the realm – his streaks of light grew wider and brighter, as if the realm was agreeing with him, willing to assist—

But nothing else seemed to change.

The mental link stayed intact.

It was highly unsettling. All his educated guesses were vain. He had no idea what would happen next, no idea how to prevent it.

“Spock,” Jim touched his shoulder lightly, and when he didn’t sense a negative reaction, squeezed tighter. “You’re thinking too much. I’m fine with this, I swear. You’ve gone above and beyond to prolong my miserable life... I only wish I could do the same for you.”

“I think you are already doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a speculation that does not operate of many facts, but-“

Jim huffed. “Spock, just tell me!”

“If I calculate the time that has passed in the physical realm while we were present in the first layer of the meld, and add it to the rate with which an average organism dies from a wound like yours, your mind should have stopped functioning much earlier than when you collapsed.”

“Alright...” Jim frowned. “I’m following so far.”

“I have made your mind retreat into mine, thus leaving only mine under the influence of the resonator,” Jim scowled at this - Spock shouldn’t have been so self-sacrificing, he should’ve _protected_ him, “and it should have collapsed much earlier too, and yet I have not noticed any lapses. I speculate that... it is your influence that strengthens my shields against the resonator.”

This was a human/Vulcan mindscape for a human/Vulcan hybrid. Jim’s presence strengthened it because him being here was _natural_ , was what finally completed the realm. That’s why the mindscape’s upgrade seemed so rightful. Maybe destiny _was_ real.

“How so?”

“I do not know, Jim!” Spock’s annoyance and regret coiled tighter. “I... Apologize for leading us into this trap.”

Jim had to remedy the situation somehow – so he did the first thing that came to mind: he stepped even closer, leaving only two inches between them, and pressed both hands on the sides of Spock’s face, squeezing his cheeks to make his lips pucker. Spock’s brows furrowed, but Jim didn’t sense any actual displeasure coming from him, only amusement that lightened the regret up a little.

“Spock,” he said, “there’s no such thing as a trap.”

“Yes there is,” Spock mumbled through the squeezed lips and moved his head an inch away to speak freely. “A trap is a device or enclosure designed to catch-“

“I mean,” Jim interrupted, “every situation is salvageable, we just have to think hard enough. Okay,” he clapped his hands, feeling the second wind of resolve kicking in, “here’s what we’re gonna do: we’re gonna accept anything that happens as it is, question nothing and look for explanation later.”

Spock narrowed his eyes at him. That was the opposite of what he always did – how can one make a decision based on nothing?

“You still trust me, don’t you?”

Spock nodded wordlessly.

“You say my influence makes you more resilient? Can you... overpower the stone?”

“It is impossible. The stone of Gol has broken my mind the moment it entered the system. You have seen it in action,” Spock pointed out.

“Yes, but you’re the strongest telepath, what if you can!”

An eyebrow climbed up.

“How many telepaths have you encountered to make this assessment?”

“Well, one. Including you. But still!” He added quickly before Spock could interrupt. “I hate Nero, but he must’ve known what he was talking about after having you imprisoned for decades – he said he picked you specifically because of your unique genetic makeup, you might not be the strongest telepath in the universe, but you certainly are one among _Vulcans_ ,” Jim tapped a finger on his lips in contemplation. “You said peace is the component that breaks the resonator, right?”

“Jim, you misunderstand. The resonator brings out all emotions, no matter how buried. Why do you think those Vulcans were affected? All of them hold the pain of their lost world, even I had that pain even though I didn’t know Vulcan existed. The tiniest bit of hate you have for Nero will be your downfall.”

“Okay,” Jim said, getting restless. “But what about positive emotions? If I feel something like happiness...”

Spock’s eyebrows rose. “If you are happy at the moment I am both truly impressed and concerned about the humanity’s inconsistency with their emotions.”

“Okay, maybe not _happy_ per se, but what about – I don’t know, just throwing examples here – _affection_ ,” he hesitated for a moment, and added, “or _love_ , the resonator will amplify it and I will not be harmed.”

“Perhaps,” Spock replied thoughtfully. “T’Pring failed to mention the impact positive emotions have.”

Probably because she never experienced them, Jim’s inner voice said. Although in this world, inner voice was the same as the vocal cords.

“We should try it anyway,” he continued hurriedly before Spock could jump to T’Pring’s defense. “If we do nothing we’ll be dead anyway, so I say we take a chance and see if it works out. Just tell me what to do, I’ll support you with my emotions, I’ll be your bearing while you do your telepath stuff; anything you want.”

“I suppose,” Spock began slowly as he couldn’t believe the inane, completely undeveloped idea he was about to suggest, “I could leave your consciousness here to allow you to strengthen my shields against the resonator...” he trailed off; the pieces of the information surprisingly were falling together into a resemblance of a plan. His mind was racing; reflexively, he folded his legs in a pose he often had while solving complicated equations. Jim made a small gesture, encouraging him to continue. “...while I heal your body to the best of my ability.”

“Will it work?” Jim asked, the familiar mix of apprehension and exhilaration pumping through his non-existent veins.

“I do not know,” Spock repeated for the third time today; he hasn’t said those words so many times his entire life. “However, as you have correctly said, this is our only chance.”

Of course, even if he managed to heal Jim’s body and successfully transfer back his consciousness, as well as destroy the resonator, this would leave them as Nero’s mercy, who wouldn’t hesitate—

“We’ll deal with him later,” Jim answered.

He was right. Spock could only hope for a miracle that for the first time ever he would not be alone and help would come.

“Alright, right now I want three things: kick Nero’s ass, get rid of the hole in my stomach to live long enough to figure all of this,” Jim swiped his hands widely, “out, and a pineapple pizza with extra cheese. You ready to dive into the unknown?”

Spock allowed the corners of his lips to upturn.

“You _are_ my chosen guide, after all.”

“Okay,” Jim gripped Spock’s shoulders with a smile. “Let’s make the bugger’s eyes water.”

Spock mirrored his pose for a moment, and then stepped back, putting three feet between then, and closed his eyes, concentrating on the awareness of the mind surrounding them on the further layer.

Spock gently extracted himself from the link, making sure Jim’s consciousness stayed trapped there, away from the harmful effect of the resonator.

At first Jim thought the darkness around him would collapse once he’s alone, or change somehow to lose the Spockiness of it – but it stayed unchanged. A decoration. His presence didn’t influence it because it was already looking like this.

And then it was as if the realm itself whispered an answer in his ear: if it stayed stable it wasn’t just Spock’s mind; it was something beyond that. And what could be beyond consciousness?

A soul. _Their_ souls.

So he made himself comfortable by crossing his legs and forcefully thinking about how much he wanted Spock to go through this unharmed, hoping his earnest feelings would be enough for this weird soul domain. If the master’s answering concentration around him like a cocoon was any indication, it was in agreement.

As soon as Spock materialized in the garden, he dropped on his knees, his projection suddenly heavy like lead: the trip and the resonator were taking their toll.

He spent a few moments rebuilding the structure of his mental self, locking all possible feelings out of reach in preparation of facing the resonator.

Jim’s support weaved through him like a web made of concentrated star matter, making what he already was familiar with effortless: structuring his mind was a skill he was taught and that he honed to perfection on his own. Building walls. Erasing fear. Brushing and strengthening the connection he had with Jim and sensing a pull in reply.

He reemerged in the real world.

In comparison with the garden it seemed like a horror movie scene: blue light, scraps of stone from the destroyed enhancer covering the floor, a puddle of dark red blood and Jim’s deathly pale skin – and a working stone of Gol.

With fingers barely moving – all his energy was channelled into keeping Jim alive – he managed to lock his fingers around the resonator and pluck out the smallest part of it, fist tightening around the tiny stone.

This was enough to deactivate the resonator, and incredible relief washed over him, finally, _finally_ being free from constant pounding pain.

And before Nero could come around without the influence, he pressed left hand to his face – no fear and definitely no hesitation this time – to keep him paralysed, and arranged his right hand of Jim’s meld points more carefully. Jim’s parlour was pale, his lips bluish; Spock had no chance of healing such a wound completely, but the least he could do was prevent death.

He has patched up worse.

Anatomy was just like engineering, controlling a body was just like assembling a computer; with knowing the elements and their functions Spock could hold Jim’s body in stasis.

Balancing energy for both processes was tricky, but he wasn’t brought up to be a telepath with the highest mind capacity for nothing; so he entered a shallow meditative state, letting emotions come free, analyzing and putting them away to prevent them from interfering.

***

There was no way of telling how much time has passed;  Spock had to turn his internal clock off in order to direct all mental energy into controlling the two minds attached to his.

He only knew that it was many, many, many hours. Spock could sense the exhaustion building in his organism: if it had a charge indicator it would’ve shown 1%.

When it was at zero, he collapsed.

The pieces of debris cluttering the floor dug into his skin, one particularly sharp splinter driving right into the cut on his cheek; he couldn’t move; the only living thing that was inside of him was the link with Jim he knew he had to keep no matter what – with their souls tied together if Spock lived it meant Jim had to live too. The energy between them flowed freely, requiring no effort to keep it up; Spock was sharing it generously, ready to give everything he had.

With his right hand attached to Jim’s temple and his left hand hiding the stone, he had no defence when Nero rose slowly, clutching his head. Spock couldn’t deny being relieved for a moment – the stone didn’t kill him, the strengthening procedures Spock performed throughout the years helped him; being a cause of someone’s death would’ve been despicable, even inadvertently – just before realizing Nero, on the other hand, had no such restrictions and now that the enhancer was destroyed he didn’t need Spock at all.

Spock let Jim’s mind settle back in its rightful place, simply because he couldn’t keep him deep inside their connection any longer – at least his skin gained some colour by now. Jim groaned and tried to roll on his side, movements awkward. Spock was still blocking his pain, otherwise he would’ve passed out, but Jim’s muscles still refused to cooperate. Even though his wounds were roughly stitched now, he has lost too much blood.

Spock reached forward, cautious as to not let his other hand slip from Jim’s face, scrambling for the phaser that was _just out of his reach_ – but maybe if he stretched just a little bit more his fingertips would brush the cool surface—

—and then another hand snatched the phaser before he could reach it.

Nero didn’t waste time observing and grabbed the phaser before any of them could even think about moving: set to kill, he pondered briefly who to point it at.

Spock met his gaze head on, refusing to backdown anymore, and crawled forward, ignoring the tremors of weakness shooting through him, to cover Jim’s body with his own, painfully aware of the mix of red and green blood dripping off his soaked clothes.

Seconds passed; Jim lifted his head to look over the destruction – the debris lit by the bluish light, his own communicator fallen out of Spock’s pocket, the phaser, the disassembled resonator, the puddle of blood underneath him – and finally, at his own wound that wasn’t bleeding anymore, at Spock, with concern for his wellbeing palpable through his skin, and at Nero, watching his every move like a hawk, with the resonator’s influence still fogging his mind, otherwise both of them would be dead already.

Spock sent a streak of impressions into Jim’s mind, telling him he was well and showing what he did the moment he reappeared on the physical plane. Jim gave him a minuscule nod in reply.

Finally, Nero settled on the spot directly at Spock’s forehead.

Jim straightened immediately, trying and failing to move in front of Spock, which must’ve looked comical to an onlooker.

It certainly looked that way to Nero, who raised both eyebrows as Jim growled, voice rough, “Don’t even think about it.”

“A malfunctioning weapon should be destroyed,” he replied.

“Over my dead body!!”

Spock knew it was just an expression, but if Jim continued to move like this, it could become very literal; he tried to push Jim down, only worsening his agitated state.

Nero’s knuckles went white from the force he was gripping the phaser with – Spock expected it to crack any minute. He was in rage worse Spock’s ever seen, and he couldn’t stop a reflexive twinge of fear grazing his mind. He sensed waves of fierce protectiveness coming off Jim in response, and he nearly dislodged Spock’s hand by jerking forward.

“If you touch him I will fucking kill you,” he said, anger oozing off his words – but completely diminished by the state he was in.

“In that case, maybe I should kill you first, seeing how you refuse to die on your own,” Nero said, pointing the phaser at Jim’s head, “just like I killed your father.”

A twinge of triumph in Jim’s mind.

“No, you should not,” Spock said immediately. “His involvement in this conflict was not intentional, he is but a bystander.”

“Not intentional, maybe. This doesn’t deny the fact that if he hadn’t broken into the hideout everything would’ve happened exactly how it should have. Everyone would’ve gotten their justice, and maybe if you stayed sane after the enhancer we would’ve continued working together,” he frowned deeply. “I guess my mistake was not forming an emotional attachment.”

“I am incapable of emotional attachment,” Spock replied. He knew his voice was full of resentment; he didn’t care.

Nero pointed at Jim in wordless conviction.

And that’s when Spock drew himself up, meeting his conviction with his own steel-hard resolve.

“You want to know your mistake? It was not the only one, but it was the first. You had a chance to manipulate me and forge me into a weapon you desired, but you have told me to _never ask questions_. And I never did, not since I was three. I have found all the answers on my own. You thought you were raising me – but the truth is that I have raised myself. You have told me that everyone feared me - but they do not,” the realization of what was taken away from him coated his mind in a thick layer of bitterness. “The truth is - _you_ feared me.”

The fingers he had pressed to Jim’s temple trembled, and in Jim’s mind he sensed awe and protectiveness; but he was looking at Nero, watching him understand his plan was rotten at the core from the very beginning, and as Spock’s understanding of his own life was unfurling before him in great detail, he could finally let it go, along with limitations and illusions he harboured.

Jim fingers wrapped around Spock’s wrist gently in a sign of support; Nero glanced at him, distracted by the movement, looking Jim over from head to toe, asking, enraged, “How is he even still _alive_?”

The fact he refused to acknowledge Spock’s words were more telling than any answer could be.

“I’ve discovered the meaning of life, I guess,” Jim’s voice had sarcastic undertones his mind didn’t possess. “It does miracles to your flesh wounds.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Spock saw Jim’s communicator light up, software he’s never seen before appearing on screen, as well as a line of text: _‘Tracking attempt detected.’_

“I’m tired of talking,” Nero said, finger moving to the trigger.

Jim’s eyes flicked to Spock’s fist curled around the stone and he spoke angrily, hastily.

“How does it feel to know the plan you’ve spent years waiting to execute was undone by the man you tortured into submission and a random guy you’ve just met? All of this undone by a teeny tiny accident? Huh? How does it _feel_?”

Spock felt a flutter of a thought being pushed at him; and with this simple question Spock understood what he should do next: he locked his and Jim’s minds together again, spreading a calming influence over them, and moved to slam the tiny stone back into the resonator, just as Jim grabbed the barrel of the phaser with both hands and pushed it upwards, the blast missing his head by mere millimetres.

Smell of burst hair filled the air.

And then, just as Jim twisted the phaser again and it burnt Spock’s shoulder instead of blowing up his head, Spock’s hand stilled next to the stone, because he heard voices.

The door swished open, and nine people flew in: the woman from the hub, an unknown Vulcan, the two of them followed by six fully armed security guards, and finally, McCoy looking like he’s just ran a marathon. The unexpected movement threw Nero off, he ripped the phaser off Jim’s grip and fired at the newcomers; but his movements were still sluggish after being thoroughly minced by the stone of Gol, and the woman was lightning-fast compared to him, striking a fist into his face with no hesitation. Her movement was so forceful that both of them stumbled forward and didn’t fall down only because the security guards steadying her.

“You piece of-”

Her other fist was caught by the Vulcan man.

“Amanda,” he chided, grasping her hand balled into a fist, and she glared at him.

“Shut up, Sarek, let me have this!”

Seeing her glare, the man stepped away instantly.

“As you wish, my wife,” he let her go.

Meanwhile, one of the guards was saying, “Sir, you will be present in front of the trial accused of performing genocide, a genocide attempt, kidnapping-“

“I’d rather die than stand trial before _your race_!” Nero spit out, moving to point the phaser at his own head. The guards wrestled it from his hand and six stun rays slammed into him.

The woman – Amanda – looked over their heads at Spock, fury leaving her expression and twisting into a strange combination of sadness and happiness, something he couldn’t explain, so he bypassed the scene entirely, focusing on McCoy.

McCoy fell on his knees next to them immediately, tumbling in the medical kit with one hand and turning a tricorder on with another – as soon as it was activated a hundred alarms went off, blaring and beeping.  McCoy’s eyes popped.

“What the fuck – you should be dead, man!!”

“I see you have received my message, Doctor,” Spock said.

“What message?” Jim asked; his mind was swamped in confusion since the moment the doors opened, and there was even a stray thought about this being a hallucination caused by blood loss.

“I have messaged our coordinates to him,” Spock was quick to reassure him. “Judging by Dr. McCoy’s intent caring for your well-being, I assumed a distress signal sent to him would have a greater effect than if I sent it to anyone else.”

“And that made you gather an entire armada?” Jim laughed weakly, looking at McCoy with a lot more warmth now that he knew he was real.

“You would panic too if you got this,” he thrust a communicator into Jim’s face. The message had an attachment of coordinates and a single word:

To: Bones  
  
**TheBeastieBoy:** Help.

 “I assumed brevity would be beneficial,” Spock explained. “In my experiences with humans I have noticed their inclination to exaggeration and assumptions, therefore I knew the message would be interpreted by imagining the worst case scenario.”

“Nobody believed me at first,” McCoy continued, “nobody wanted to give me a ship, said I was overreacting – overreacting, _me_? HA! But I was lucky enough to meet a wonderful woman back when I was in the hospital, she heard me talking about Spock’s blood test results – turns out she was very interested in Vulcan-human hybrids – that’s what you are by the way, I can’t believe it took me so long to figure it out, I’ve just never seen Vulcan hybrids before... Anyway, she offered me a ship on behalf of the Vulcan fleet and a security detail – she’s a Vulcan ambassador’s wife and an Earth ambassador herself, she can do this kind of thing, especially after saying she was doing it to prevent a terrorist attack – so we set your coordinates, punched to warp nine, and here we are!”

“Where’s the rest of the fleet?” Jim asked.

“Sorting things out with the government and security. Amanda here got a free pass as an Ambassador.”

All three looked at the woman who was now shouting choice expletives at whatever taunt Nero threw at her – her husband looked like only his position was stopping him from joining in.

“Her behaviour is not very diplomatic,” Spock pointed out.

“Dunno, seems like a perfect response to me,” Jim smiled. “I don’t know who she is, but I like her already. She fulfilled my dream of punching that guy in the face.”

“Well,” McCoy said, focusing on his instruments once more, “she’d better tell who she is herself.”

“Bones, how did you end up being allowed in an anti-terrorist operation anyway?”

McCoy scoffed. “If you think something like Starfleet or any government on any planet can stop me, you’re terribly mistaken,” he pointed a tricorder at Jim’s head and flipped a switch repeatedly, frowning at the screen. “Uh, what’s going on here?” He pointed at Spock’s fingers glued to Jim’s temple.

“Spock here keeps my body in check to make sure my insides don’t fall out,” Jim flung an arm over Spock’s shoulders, pulling him close, and Spock couldn’t stop the shiver of tension locking his muscles.

“Uh, sorry,” Jim said awkwardly; Spock knew he expected to be free to touch him the same way he did in the mindscape.

Spock sent a pulse of reassurance Jim’s way, explaining it was a reflexive reaction of self-preservation and not Jim’s fault or refusal to have any physical contact with him. Jim’s reply was one of relief and understanding.

One of the Vulcan guards approached them, phaser ready.

“Who are you?” He asked sternly.

Jim gave him a brilliant smile.

“Oh, we’re just two guys who have no idea what’s going on, but we don’t let it stop us. As it turns out, not knowing things is actually pretty good, it means there’s so much to be discovered… But can you maybe put the phaser down? If you shoot me, it’s going to be like the third time today. This threat has kinda lost its value.”

The guard looked at Jim, assessing his state. “You will be debriefed after received proper medical attention.”

His gaze fell at the disassembled stone of Gol, and Spock hid the tiny piece inside the poncho’s pocket, masking the movement as opening the communicator.

“What are you doing?” Jim asked, craning his neck. Spock had to push him down gently.

“Please do not move. You have a hole in your stomach.”

“You don’t say?!” Jim feigned extremely exaggerated surprise. “I didn’t even notice that insignificant titbit of info...” He tried to peer at the name on the screen. “Who are you texting— isn’t T’Pring that awful Vulcan lady?!”

“She promised me assistance, and she is not awful,” Spock said, at the same time as McCoy shouted, “Oh my god, Jim, stay still, do you want to live or _not_?!”

“I do, in fact,” Jim said, looking at Spock with an incredibly gentle expression and equally gentle thoughts. “I would like to stay alive very much, for as long as possible.”

***

Jim said Nero was the only person he’s ever met who truly deserved death.

Spock tried to argue that nobody deserved such a sentence, and that Jim was biased; but in reality he was glad he only got to see Nero once before he was transported into the Federation prison – before the trial where Spock and Jim, along with McCoy, Scotty, Uhura, and everyone else involved were providing testimony. Even Baran was dragged in kicking and screaming (he was much quieter after Federation security told him refusal to cooperate would result in considering him an accomplice in a genocide attempt) – everyone was there, except for Lester, who not only managed to come out of this as a good guy, but also escape literally every force out to gather evidence. Jim was convinced she managed to get her hands on another mind apparatus; Spock was sure she was simply a talented con artist.

The trial was after Jim spent days in Starfleet hospital, of course.

Spock never left his side: both because the thought of being apart became unbearable, and because he never wanted to go back to the meadow in Riverside again. Jim supported his decision whole-heartedly, and asked McCoy to send someone to collect Spock’s belongings while the building was sealed under investigation. McCoy said he would send the fiercest worker he had: to their surprise, a day later Christine Chapel appeared with a bag slung over her shoulder, a bruise on her elbow, and a lyre in her hands. Jim said she got in a fist fight with a hundred Starfleet officers surrounding the building; Spock knew she bumped into a shelf accidentally (and there were only five officers guarding the house).

They had a long talk with Starfleet representatives, who said Jim’s wrongdoings would be forgiven if he confessed and gave away all the deals he had with the mercenaries for the past year. He did, but in the end, turned out Starfleet was _kind of_ blackmailing him, because the Vulcan high council expressed their gratitude to both of them in quite an official way, complete with a monetary reward and promise to help with whatever they needed, whether it was therapy or restoring one’s reputation.

After the most immediate healing was done, and McCoy said Jim would make a full recovery, except for the scar spreading from the navel to the solar plexus, they were left in a private hospital room. Spock was sitting at the foot of Jim’s bed, watching out for any signs of distress from him – but there were none, his eyes were shining, skin healthy and pink again, especially in contrast with the hospital gown he was put in. Spock opted to stay in the poncho that was dry-cleaned from the blood it was soaked in. He really wished he could sit closer to Jim, but he wasn’t about to make the first move.

And as soon as the thought appeared Jim patted the bed next to him: even through the link was inactive at the moment, the ability to understand each other without words stayed. Both still _sensed_ the presence of the link, the bricks of the mental landscape set in their minds.

Jim was reclining on the pillows, regarding Spock was slightly raised eyebrows and upturned corners of lips – an attractive but peculiar expression. Spock wished he could touch his bare skin again to gain access to the deciphering of the subtleties of human emotions.

“What is the meaning of your expression?” He decided to ask directly; but Jim only dismissed the question with a widened smile and a shake of his head.

“So what was it though, in the end? An incredible coincidence, or were we meant to meet no matter what?” Jim asked when Spock settled next to him, shoulders brushing. Now that he knew there was no logical reason to fear physical contact it was easier to accept it; although he realized his conditioning would prevent him from fully accepting it right away. So far the only person Spock allowed to be close to himself (and who _expressed_ a desire to be close to him) was Jim, obviously, and Dr. McCoy – for as long as he needed to take another blood sample.

“I mean, we had this bond and you never sensed it?”

“I did sense loss,” Spock replied. “I assumed it was the broken bonds with my people, but perhaps it was distance from your mind as well. I simply couldn’t recognize it.”

“But another Vulcan could,” Jim said thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Spock inclined his head.

“T’Mira,” Jim said, and Spock’s eyes lit up with understanding. “She told you those stories, didn’t she?”

“Certain bonds are forged as soon as the individuals’ katras – souls – are formed,” Spock replied, and Jim nodded: he’s already known this. While the concept of sharing information without verbalizing and without even an intent of sharing it must be most unusual to non-telepathic species, he seemed to be adjusting really well. While there was still some confusion and questions like ‘Did you tell me this or did I imagine that?’, he accepted the fact that he shared many of Spock’s memories now.

“While we seem to have this type of bond that was in such a dormant state even I did not sense it while exploring my own mind,” Spock continued, “I am uncertain whether it had any influence of our meeting. Most likely not, since neither of us were aware of its existence, and it could have no influence on our decisions – otherwise we must assume the existence of an unseen force directing our choices.”

“Well, here’s a topic for us to explore,” Jim smiled. “Perhaps T’Mira sensed the link within you, but couldn’t tell you because Nero would’ve killed her family if she said you a wrong word, and instead tried to prepare you this way.”

“She assumed that one day I will be free,” Spock said. If he was in T’Mira’s situation he would’ve done the same: if he knew he was about to die, he would’ve made sure his death had an impact.

“What about me? Did having this pre-existing bond affect me in any way?”

“Your so-called ‘gut feeling’ could be a residual effect of the psychic link,” Spock suggested.

“Nah,” Jim waved his hand. “It’s just good old intuition.”

“Perhaps,” Spock agreed easily; after all, he had no evidence to form a solid opinion. “We should conduct a scientific experiment to receive trustworthy data.”

“Yeah, we totally should,” Jim said and made a wide gesture indicating an imaginary screen. “Here’s a title for my first treatise, _‘Scientific Proof That Destiny is Real: How I almost died three times in two days and met my soulmate.’_ Gotta woo the guys in the Academy somehow.”

“The title is certainly captivating.”

Admittance to the Academy was probably the easiest part – Jim didn’t even have to mention his desire to attend, Starfleet has invited him themselves, saying he possessed qualities necessary for a good officer. Once the summer was over, a place in the first year of the Command track was waiting for him.

“You can co-author, of course, if you want,” Jim said carefully. “If you decide to join me after all.”

Jim hasn’t given up on persuading Spock to enter the Academy as well – Spock received an invitation from them as well. It was a tempting offer, but Spock had so many things to catch up to, most importantly about his race: he already knew where his next stop was going to be, the Vulcan colony. He has arranged a meeting with T’Pring (using his brand-new personal communicator this time) – he had a lot to tell her, mostly about her dead mother. He had to find his place in this world.

“Perhaps,” Spock repeated. It was a good word; not a lie and not a false promise. With their shoulders pressed together, he decided to address another thought on the forefront of his mind. “Jim, while our minds were merged, I have noted your feelings in regard to the physical contact that happened between us on Narak’es. I must inform you that I…” He paused before admitting his reasoning aloud. “ _Enjoyed_ it on the level beyond its original intent. If you wish, I can repeat the act,” he hoped Jim would understand his genuine regret and forgive him for another trick.

Jim mouthed _‘repeat the act’_ with a crooked smile.

“Only if you want to. You’re not required to resolve every disagreement we had all at once, it’s not like we’re saying goodbye for good,” the was a slight questioning inflection in the end.

“No, we are not, and I do want to,” Spock said, steeled himself, and placed a palm on Jim’s shoulder. It should not be difficult, but even now a part of him was reflexively waiting for a backlash from a simple touch: rejection, fear, hateful thoughts; but Jim’s mind called for him through the thin layer of the medical gown, whispering its assent.

“Okay,” Jim’s warm verbal response was, “come here.”

He slid his arms around Spock and pressed their bodies together, making a small happy sound.

Jim’s right hand rested against the small of his back, his left travelled to his shoulder blades, his face pressed into the crook of his neck, and he projected such a strong feeling of immense contentment; and Spock finally allowed himself to truly relax – for the first time since this ordeal began, and, perhaps, for the first time since he was a child. He was unsure what to do with his hands, so they stayed frozen on Jim’s back, wrinkling the gown.

“Can you imagine we didn’t even know each other two days ago?” Jim stroked Spock’s hair without much coordination, catching the ear and temple in the process. In response Spock clutched him tighter; so far it was one of the most pleasant experiences he had, second only to the time Jim held his hand on Scotty’s shuttle.

Then his brain caught up with the question he was asked.

“There is no need to use imagination to recollect the event that happened recently,” he said and received another light pat on the back.

“Sure,” Jim said with a non-committed hum, and then neither of them seemed to think words were necessary, leaving only the background noise, both physical and mental: beeping of the monitors in nearby rooms, rustling of leaves outside, low murmur of thoughts.

“Thank you,” Spock said quietly after a while. There was no need to elaborate: he knew Jim sensed the boundless meaning behind those two words that seemed so small when said aloud.

Jim straightened, moving just an inch backwards, and touched his cheek, applying barest pressure. “I should be the one thanking you. For everything,” the pad of his forefinger touched the edge of Spock’s eyebrow. “Tell me what you want.”

“If you have no qualms, I would like… to hold your hand again.”

Jim smiled at him softly, and in lieu of replying slid his hand under Spock’s and laced their fingers together. Spock barely repressed a content sigh: there it was, that strange yet exciting feeling of having the skin of his fingers caressed.

Then a padd pinged with an alert of another article appearing on the topic of the recent events – Jim has set a script to forward them any piece of news that had ‘Vulcan’ or their names in it.

Both heads bent over a padd reading the articles various sites published about the events on the Aikum and commenting on over-the-top ways the reporters described it, knowing nothing about what really happened; they enjoyed this pastime until Amanda Grayson and Ambassador Sarek paid them a visit.

It was McCoy who led them in; he said, “You’ve got a lot to talk about” cryptically and left.

Amanda looked at Spock with the same expression she wore when Nero was apprehended; Sarek stared at him blankly. Reflexively, Spock inched away deeper into the head of the bed where he was sitting with Jim; Jim pressed a shoulder against him in mute support.

“Hello,” Jim said, taking charge of the conversation.

“Spock…” Amanda said, lowering into the visitor’s chair; her husband remained standing. The way she said his name was so gentle, so unusual – and Jim straightened next to him, understanding something. Spock sent him a look of confusion, but he only shook his head.

“I don’t know how to start…” She began, and Sarek finished, “We are your biological parents.”

A brief flash of irritation flickered across her features. “Sarek!”

“There is no reason to prolong the revelation of the truth.”

“I see,” Spock said. He was unsure how to react and glanced at Jim for support. At least now he had an explanation as to why he only sensed one parental bond before.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Jim jumped in immediately. “I would like to compliment your face-punching skills, Ma’am.”

Jim was smiling, and Spock sensed he meant it as a joke to lighten the mood, but Amanda’s face darkened.

“If it wasn’t for Sarek and the security, I would’ve done something I wouldn’t be proud of,” she said, voice low. “Imagine, after all these years seeing a man responsible for the death of my husband’s planet, disappearance of my son, raising him as a— as—“ She shook her head. “And planning to repeat all of this. Breaking his nose was the least he could get away with.”

“He has received a life sentence in a heavily guarded prison for the most dangerous war criminals,” Sarek said. “It is a fitting punishment.”

“No,” Amanda said. “It’s not.”

Jim nodded shortly, any trace of humour now gone.

Amanda touched Spock’s arms briefly, obviously restricting herself from doing more, and her expression softened.

“I’m so happy to see you again, Spock,” she whispered. “Alive, and all grown-up… I can’t believe he let you keep your name – the only thing you’ve got left of us…”

She blinked several times and pressed a hand to her eyes.

“Probably because he didn’t have any imagination to come up with a new name,” Jim grumbled under his breath.

“I look forward to being acquainted with you, my son,” Sarek said.

Amanda’s hand trailed over Spock’s sleeve again, and Jim watched the tremors shaking it. Spock felt a twinge of guilt: this was his mother, and specifically a human, thus needing emotional reassurance – he had to give her something.

“If you want to hug someone, you can hug me,” Jim supplied, coming to Spock’s rescue as usual, smiling at her – and the next moment he was crashed into Amanda, who was pouring all the hugging power that was meant for Spock into this. Spock appreciated this consideration – she was either informed of the way he treated physical contact or figured it out herself.

“I think I’m about to crack a rib again,” Jim’s muffled words were.

Still, if Spock wanted to be accepted he had to make an effort.

Reluctantly, he lifted his free hand and placed it on Amanda’s shoulder gingerly, and she stared at him with wide eyes – just like his own – as if she didn’t believe what was happening; and then embraced him with one arm lightly. Her touch was gentle, but her muscles were straining.

“Sarek, get over here,” she said.

“I do n—“

“Get over here,” she pressed before he could even begin.

Reluctantly, and with an expression that clearly stated he was doing it only to appease his wife, Sarek leaned over the biobed, placing one palm on Amanda’s back and another on Spock’s arm.

The next moment Amanda was wrapping her arms around all three of them and crashing them together; Spock was acutely aware of two new bodies pressed into his own and the emotions they were projecting; it stopped only after they heard Jim’s muffled, “Ma’am, please, I can’t breathe...”

Amanda released them immediately, fixing her hair and brushing a hand over her eyes; Sarek assumed his previous rigid pose; Spock willed the blood colouring his face away; and Jim just grinned at him. Judging by his red cheeks it was physically exerting for him, but his projections told Spock he was very pleased with what happened.

Then, Amanda asked the most unexpected question.

“Will you come with us to New Vulcan for the summer?”

“I’m sorry?” Jim’s eyes widened.

“You’ve got nowhere to live, do you? You can live with us until the new semester begins, we have lots of spare rooms.”

“Seriously?”

“We would not be making such an offer in jest,” Sarek added.

“Uh,” he glanced at Spock, red colour of his skin growing brighter. “I—I mean, thank you for the offer, I’d love to, but...”

Spock sensed his hesitation regarding Spock’s opinion on the matter, so he said, “I would appreciate it if you continued being my guide.”

Jim beamed at him, intertwining their fingers once more. Unconsciously, Spock leaned closer, realizing he was behaving not unlike a moth drawn to a source of light.

“A guide on a planet I’ve never been to? I’d love to try,” he said, and so it was settled.

Amanda glanced at their still joined hands, her expression becoming lighter. “As your mother I must express my concern that you are moving too fast,” her tone had a playful tilt to it.

“Amanda, you have literally just invited that man to live in our residence,” Sarek said.

“We are not moving anywhere,” Spock indicated their stationary bed, “unless you mean the rotation of the planet around the sun.”

Amanda just laughed and shook her head; her laughter was very pleasant.

“I knew that was you in the spaceport, by the way,” Amanda said. “Call it mother’s sixth sense – Sarek doesn’t believe it,” she touched her husband’s hand.

“I merely stated that you most likely recognized similar facial features, that is all.”

“If we weren’t running away from the security I would’ve figured out who you were too,” Jim said. “You really do look alike.”

Amanda laughed pleasantly again; and then told them how she met McCoy while he was shouting at everyone about a Vulcan-human hybrid and his idiot human friend who were gone for ‘ _more than twenty-four goddamn hours’_ , and with this figured out who Spock was; they traced their movements with Scotty’s help and knew Spock was on Aikum, his message just helped them acquire precise coordinates and made McCoy ask for a couple more armed ships and a flamethrower (that he was denied in the end).

Eventually, she said, trying to express immeasurable amount of feeling with limitations of words, “Spock, we still loved you through all these years.”

Spock knew he was expected to say something of that value as well.

“I was logically aware of your existence,” he replied cautiously, “all these years.”

Amanda choked out a sound and turned around quickly – they caught a glimpse of wetness around her eyes.

“I – sorry, I need a moment,” she said quickly as she disappeared behind the privacy curtain around the bed.

Spock looked at Sarek, the twinge of guilt becoming stronger; he seemed to be failing at providing his mother with what she needed.

“Did I make her sad?”

“Not you,” Sarek said. At least the way _he_ presented himself was familiar. “And she is also happy.”

“But she was crying.”

“She is human. It is a normal response for her, ask your partner,” he replied, and Jim nodded. “If you excuse me, I must console my wife,” the curtain closed behind him.

Later, after they departed, McCoy came in with a round of hypos and an appetizingly smelling box containing a pizza overloaded with pineapples and mushrooms. There were bacon and cheese on one half and dried tomatoes with sauce on the other; Jim spun the box in a way that left the tomato side facing Spock.

“This is a one-time only exception,” McCoy warned. “Only because you prevented a terrorist attack and became heroes of the Federation. Don’t even _think_ about asking me for junk food in my hospital ever again, especially this atrocity. Also the only reason I brought it to you because the reporters are getting crafty and are dressing up as delivery service workers; I’m a doctor, not your pizza boy.”

“Shanks, Bonsh,” Jim said through a mouthful of pizza, while McCoy set of telling them his version of events in full detail, that made him sound like a supreme commander of the Federation.

“When we got to the hub,” he was saying, “a very pleasant and helpful lady, Miss Lester, told us where to find Mr. Scott – Starfleet is giving her commendation for her assistance...”

A slice of pizza fell from Jim’s hand on the pristine white sheets. “No-no-no, red alert, Bones, Lester is not _pleasant and helpful_!!”

And that’s when they finally got a chance to tell McCoy everything from the very beginning with no interruptions. Jim was the one telling most of the time, flailing his arms dramatically and using unnecessary amounts of sarcasm in the more serious parts of the story, namely their near-death situations. Meanwhile, Spock requested a plate with a fork and a knife to cut his pizza, that were replicated a moment later. While he was able to stay functioning for days with no food, exhaustion resulted in a heightened sense of hunger; he’s just realized, he haven’t had a proper meal for two days.

The end left McCoy gaping, slumped on the visitors chair.

“And she seemed so nice...” He pondered which slice of pizza to take, finally settling on Spock’s. “Gah, I’d rather eat this vegetarian stuff than your pineapple monstrosity.”

“You just don’t appreciate the finer things in life,” Jim said. “I guess J outplayed us all in the end, didn’t she,” he added thoughtfully.

“Whatcha mean?”

“Well, she just took whatever circumstances were being thrown at her and twisted them in a way that would let her come out clean and a hero, getting a return ticket into the world of lawful scientists – exactly what she wanted.”

“And everyone she betrayed ended up imprisoned,” McCoy added, raising a slice at a mock version of toasting with a glass. “Kudos to her.”

Later other doctors came in and out, some reporters tried to break in and were scared off by McCoy and Chapel; and during that time Spock was waiting for Jim ask the question he knew was eating him.

“You promised we’d meld again,” Jim said. “When can we do it? That world was pretty amazing.”

“After experiencing an unexpected singularity, especially in such stressful conditions, we must achieve independence by refraining from joining minds fully,” Spock said, even though he wished he could visit the complete mindscape once more too.

“Fi-i-ine,” Jim drawled, throwing his head back onto the pillows. “So _when_ can we meld again?”

“I expect four weeks would be enough for our minds to recover.”

“A whole month?!” He threw his hands up. “Oh, come on! I left a friend there.”

“What friend?”

“The goat, remember? He likes corn and country music. I named him Leonard.”

“Ha-ha,” McCoy’s sarcastic voice came from behind the curtain. “My daughter’s humour is better than yours, and she’s a first-grader.”

“Don’t insult my new bff!” Jim shouted at McCoy’s retreating back. “I’m gonna teach him how to drink!!”

When no answer came, he slumped against the pillows, and smiled at Spock gently, glancing at the clock.

“Four weeks,” he hummed. “Can’t wait.”

Spock nodded.

Spock was twenty years and thirty-three days old, and this was the first time he experienced affection. Of all types, from different people; it was overwhelming, and he appreciated the fact that the other people who were eager to see and question him, including cadets Uhura, Sulu, and Chekov, and Mr. Scott, were asked to postpone it till their dismissal from the hospital.

By the time they stood in the hub, waiting for Sarek’s shuttle that would take him to New Vulcan, he knew what he wanted.

Because why should he overcomplicate things by creating additional dilemmas? Spock already knew where he belonged. He knew how Jim’s mind fitted with his, sensed his reciprocation, affection unbelievable in its existence, the pure joy the connection they were about to explore brought – something he didn’t know he was capable of feeling.

The search was over.

***

Three years later

Chat with: S'chn T'gai Spock, Mahak L'vr T'Pring  
  
**Mahak L'vr T'Pring:** Are you quite certain about your decision? You have thirty point five more minutes to reconsider.  
  
**S'chn T'gai Spock:** As you know, I have been certain for the past three years and twelve days.  
  
**Mahak L'vr T'Pring:** Opinions change; I had to ask once again anyway. I hope your association with Starfleet would not prevent you from collaborating with the VSA.  
  
**S'chn T'gai Spock:** Of course not. Are you watching the broadcast at the moment?  
  
**Mahak L'vr T'Pring:** Naturally.

After hearing it so many times, Spock could imagine T’Pring’s voice saying the word in great detail.

Two arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and Jim’s lips pressed to his temple and then cheek and stayed there.

“Surprise!” He said, and Spock decided not to point out that not only he could hear the clacking of his boots against the polycarbonate floor from metres away, but also sense his proximity through the bond. Perhaps one day, if he would learn how to close his mind off completely, Jim really would be able to catch him off guard.

Their height difference was just right for Jim to hook his chin over Spock’s shoulder comfortably (and to stand on his tiptoes when they kissed) – another reason they were destined to be together, Jim said. He even included it in that treatise that no one believed in except for a few trusted friends. On any other day Spock would object to such an obvious public display of affection, but today he was feeling bold.

“Tell your Vulcan buddies I said hi,” Jim said, peering at the screen of Spock’s communicator, and tried to reach for the keyboard discreetly to punch in some emojis, knowing nothing aggravated T’Pring more (except for maybe abbreviations). 

Chat with: S'chn T'gai Spock, Mahak L'vr T'Pring  
  
**S'chn T'gai Spock:** Jim sends his greetings.  
  
**S'chn T'gai Spock:** (Hundred Points Symbol ≊ Hundred Points)(Hundred Points Symbol ≊ Hundred Points)(Raised Hand With Part Between Middle And Ring Fingers ≊ Vulcan Salute)SUP T{PRIGN(Green Heart )(Eyes )(Rocket )(Two Men Holding Hands )  
  
**S'chn T'gai Spock:** My apologies.

He pulled the communicator away from Jim’s reach; Jim laughed quietly, returning his hand to where it was pressed against the rough fabric of the cadet jacket.

“God, I can’t wait to get out of these uniforms,” Jim muttered, chin pressed right in the outer seam on the shoulder.

Chat with: S'chn T'gai Spock, Mahak L'vr T'Pring  
  
**Mahak L'vr T'Pring:** No offence was taken. Give your bondmate my regards and best wishes in finding a proper grammar textbook.

 

Making sure Jim saw T’Pring’s reply, Spock put the communicator inside the pocket and covered Jim’s hands with his own – something he started doing with no hesitation only recently.

“Compared to the Starfleet uniforms they are rather uncomfortable,” Spock assented, although he was fairly certain the designer of the cadet uniforms had good intentions in mind, like perfecting the posture by making the thick fabric hug the body like armour. Both of them, along with their friends who’ve been already assigned on a starship, had a chance to try the Starfleet tunics on; Jim has refused to take his off, parading in their dorm room in command gold all evening and claiming it was going to be glued to his skin forever.

“Not exactly what I meant, but I agree,” Jim smiled in his shoulder, squeezed him once more, and let go.

He looked much happier now, much brighter, and almost got rid of his fatalistic thoughts, resorting to saying ‘Kill me now’ only while writing an essay for a subject he didn’t like. They’ve made good progress, both of them.

The opaque glass of the Academy doors kept parting, letting in the summer breeze of a pleasant warm day, along with cadets preparing to be seated for the graduation ceremony, and several professors from the Academy who were greeting Jim and Spock.

Those particular professors may not have taught Jim’s or Spock’s classes, but after the events that transpired three years ago that resulted in both of them choosing to complete their respective tracks in three years instead of four they became celebrities, poster boys of the Academy; and now that they were graduating on top of their courses, there was no question about who to choose to make a final speech to the class of 2256.

And then there was the most inspiring, frightening, mystical, fascinating future that could await them: space. Something Spock knew was awaiting him ever since that one night on New Vulcan, in the observatory in his parents’ house, waiting for a meteor shower – when he looked at Jim and understood with perfect clarity that he would follow him wherever he chose to go, because he could not imagine being apart.

Besides, the healer that examined their bond has encouraged proximity between them, so Spock had a logical reason too, if anyone asked (no one asked; his parents had to take one look at them to know the real reason, T’Pring has stated right away that they would be utter fools not to develop such a rarity to its full potential, and the others simply didn’t care).

“Oops, almost forgot,” Jim said, fumbling in his pocket, “can’t break the tradition, can we?”

Carefully, he pulled out a small fully red zinnia, stuck it under the Starfleet insignia, and smoothed his hands over Spock’s shoulders, admiring his work.

Zinnias have indeed become something akin to a personal symbol for them, but—

“Jim, this is against-”

“-regulation, I know. That’s why it’s red, to blend into the jacket – no one will even notice!”

Right on cue, a familiar face appeared in the stream of cadets going outside to be seated before the stage; Sulu spotted them, waved, and treaded the moving cadet masses to get closer.

“Hi, guys! Good luck with your speech,” Sulu said hurriedly as he approached them, holocamera swinging on his neck, “no time for a longer pep talk, sorry, Len and Nyota are fighting everyone to make sure we get the front row, and I think they’re losing the battle,” he waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the exit, “gotta go help them!”

He grinned at them and grabbed the camera in a lightning-fast movement, startling both of them by snapping a holo.

Spock had _friends_ now: what an unbelievable notion. Or it was unbelievable in the beginning; now he knew Hikaru, Pavel, Nyota, and Leonard would support him (although the latter would do so only after his customary berating). T’Pring joined that category too: she went from providing obligatory support to one of her kind to genuine respect, and even seeked out his company on her own initiative. Over time, she even gained appreciation of Jim’s talents, even though she still expressed enmity towards certain characteristics of his species.

And the most surprising was the fact that she wasn’t angry at Spock for being an inadvertent cause of her mother’s death.

Spock was returned to the present by the sound of Sulu’s hand slapping Jim’s shoulder.

“See you! By the way, nice flower, Spock!” With these final words Sulu bolted out of the Academy.

Slowly, Spock narrowed his eyes at Jim.

“He only knows about it because he helped me genetically engineer everything, even the stem, to be the exact same colour as our uniforms,” Jim raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Okay, more like I helped him. ...Okay, more like he did everything while I stood and watched,” he added after a momentary pause. “And provided him with moral support.”

“Something Hikaru would undoubtedly be unable to complete the procedure without,” Spock was getting a hang of sarcasm.

The flower stayed.

And as Jim leaned in to fix it to make sure it didn’t fall out, Spock glanced around to make sure no one paid attention to them and took a chance to brush a swift kiss against his lips; thus marking the third time he initiated any kind of physical expression of his feelings between them.

Jim just smiled in that beautiful way he did – gently, compared to the excitement buzzing under his skin – and continued fiddling with the pin even though there was nothing left to fix.

Their relationship was what underwent the most changes.

Jim said that for him is was pretty easy to acknowledge his emotional attachment to Spock even before he found out what the bond really entailed; for Spock, accepting his feelings was the hardest part and took him eight months. Confessing them took another three.

“I love you,” Jim replied that day, relief and happiness bubbling in his mind.

“I do not know how to name what I feel for you,” Spock said, apologetic. He’s already made Jim suffer enough by making him wait while Spock was busy sorting out him warring emotions and trying to come to terms with the idea that destroying all of them would not be necessary, and some of them may even be beneficial.

Now he was certain he loved Jim too.

Surprisingly, Jim wasn’t angry or offended about the wait at the slightest; on the contrary, he found it funny that they basically got married first and started dating second.

The graduation ceremony was designed to be grand. Professors from the Academy were speaking about how proud they were of all their students; then Jim and Spock spoke of how the Academy became their second (or maybe even first) home and how much they learned to inspire the future first-years who were watching the broadcast at that very moment; then recently promoted Admiral Pike, who’s become their mentor and friend over the past years, took a stand to announce his retirement and entrust the Enterprise in their hands, and Jim touched Spock’s hand behind the lectern where nobody could see. McCoy, Uhura, Sulu, and Chekov were at the first row, like they promised, beaming at them the entire time; further, next to rows of black-clad professors, Amanda and Sarek sat with Commander Scott, who cheered the loudest after the ceremony ended – and then all hell broke loose.

There was yelling, hugs, pats on the back, applause, comm numbers from people Spock didn’t know, and attempts at handshakes, but Spock has spent enough time among humans to handle what used to be overwhelming rather well.

“We made it!” Uhura was saying, one arm swung around Sulu, another clasping Jim’s.

“I can’t believe I actually graduated,” Chekov looked as if he was this close to weeping, and McCoy grumbled good-naturedly, “I can’t believe you’re out of a kindergarten…”

“Hey, remember how we all met?...” Sulu said, and everyone gladly seized their absolute favourite topic, retelling somewhat inaccurate recollections of the adventures, tricks, lies, and first impressions.

Tomorrow they would no longer be cadets: they would become enlisted officers, crewmembers of the USS Enterprise they’ve all served on multiple times to train under Pike’s command. They would pack their suitcases, prepared not to see Earth for a long time, and in his dorm Jim would find a box with his father’s Starfleet pin and a note with a single word: _Congratulations_. Jim would be Captain, guiding the crew to where no one has gone before, and Spock would be his First Officer, always there to point out an alternative or back him up with solid facts.

And then they’ll stand together on the bridge where the Enterprise would carry them into exciting expanse of unknown, because that’s how it should be, and that’s how it always is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tasteslikesandwich drew [Captain T'Pring](https://tasteslikesandwich.tumblr.com/post/162729913320/i-drew-leifors-captain-tpring-from-their-fic)! *0*  
> Check out the [out of obscurity tag](http://leifor.tumblr.com/tagged/out-of-obscurity) on my tumblr, you'll find more art there.
> 
> List of mentioned songs:  
> 1\. Queen - Don't Stop Me Now  
> 2\. Nicki Minaj - Starships  
> 3\. Robert Palmer - Bad Case Of Loving You  
> 4\. The Killers - Mr. Brightside  
> 5\. Anaïs Mitchell ft. Greg Brown - Why We Build The Wall  
> 6\. Beastie Boys - Intergalactic  
> 7\. Broken Back - Happiest Man on Earth  
> The title is from Pink Floyd's Sheep.
> 
> I call this genre "too-long overly technical shitpost"  
> I choose this idea only because I knew otherwise I would never find proper motivation to write it. Yes, I know it's ridiculous and terribly self-indulgent...  
> Sorry the ending (the entire fifth chapter...) was jumbled, as it turns out, writing a 85k word fic in like three months was a little ambitious for me :/ But it could've been longer - I've cut out a million subplots. Honestly, this story has spiralled out of control.  
> Maybe one day I'll rewrite it properly.  
> Anyway, if you're reading this it means you've read this fic til the end - thank you SO MUCH!  
> edit: and huge thanks to everyone who leaves kudos and comments, this means a lot, and i want to hug each and every one of you <3 <3 <3


End file.
